


Blue Skies From Rain - Chapters 18 through 24

by lovesrain44



Series: Blue Skies From Rain [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Incest, Laundry, M/M, Mental Institutions, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, oatmeal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrain44/pseuds/lovesrain44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after Sam rescues Dean from the djinn, Sam and Dean go back to the warehouse to take care of the bodies of both the victims and of the djinn. But instead of what should be a simple clean-up job, Sam and Dean are sucked into a nightmare world brought about by the djinn's last dying act of revenge. (Takes place directly after <em>What Is and What Should Never Be</em>.) What do you do when you wake up in a mental institution and you think your brother is dead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Skies From Rain - Chapters 18 through 24

**Chapter 18**

They pulled Sam from the damp green lawn, away from Dean, still curled on the grass, mouth bleeding, his hand outstretched. Reaching for Sam. Eyes wide, trying to lift his head, trying to find Sam. Sam knew that, and tried to dig in his heels to stop being pulled away, from being sucked into the building. _Away from Dean_. He couldn't see the faces of the orderlies who yanked and twisted, he could only see Dean's face and how white he'd been under the sweat and anger, his surprise that Sam would hurt him.

" _Dean_ ," he called, struggling, screaming, his throat on fire. "Dean. _Dean_."

Maybe Dean'd been mad about Sam taking liberties, pulling down Dean's boxers and taking Dean into his mouth. Dean had twitched and tried to pull away, but Sam had insisted and sucked Dean's cock until Dean had exploded into Sam's mouth, and that should have felt good. But after, Dean had turned his head away. Just a little. Which meant that he'd actually hated it and now he wanted them to stop. He wanted to be away from Sam.

"No," he said, throat closing, making him inarticulate. He turned his attention to the orderlies. "No, please, no. I'm sorry. I screwed up, I didn't mean to hurt him. Okay? _Okay_?" But he was babbling and they weren't paying any mind and when they got to the door, someone was there with a needle and some keys. Sam knew those keys, knew how they jangled, how they banged together like silver pennies striking dull cement. The orderlies dragged him inside.

"No," Sam said. His voice rose. Pleading. "No, don't. Please, _don't_ \--" The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as they swiped his arm with something cold, and he realized it was taking three men to hold him still for the injection. If he could just _twitch_ a little harder to the _right_ \--he could get back to the outside. Back to _Dean_. He shifted his muscles hard, and felt the jag of pain along his left arm.

"Damnit," said one of them, low. "He's broken the fucking needle off."

Sam could smell it, the fluid seeping out of the syringe, like cinnamon and acid rolled into one, something that could be sweet, but had been rushed and heated up and had gotten angry--

The syringe clattered as someone threw it to the floor.

"He's going to spin. I'll get the razor."

Sam was looking right at the orderly as he said this, a man with a thin moustache, and he didn't look at Sam with hate or disgust. He wasn't even mildly angry. Just bored and distracted by his plans for the evening or the weekend. Sam could see it. He didn't care about Sam at all. If Greer had been there, he would have looked right at Sam and called him by name and told him to hold still while he got the razor and cut out the broken needle. If Dean had been there, he would have clasped Sam's face, and maybe kissed him, whispering into his mouth, telling him to be good, this wouldn't hurt--

"Fuck you," said Sam. Screamed it. "Fuck you. Fuck you. _Fuck_ _you_."

He got shoved against the wall, his head knocking hard against the cinderblock. Three pairs of hands held him there, and a thigh braced against his. The thin moustache orderly who didn't even look at Sam was right in front of him. There was another swipe of something cold.

"That's gotta go in the chart," said someone.

"Yeah," said thin moustache orderly. "When we're done, you get to write it up for not being freaking fast enough."

"You're the one that couldn't hold him tight enough."

"Could we just _please_ \--" said the other orderly.

There was a cool hand on his arm, and Sam could feel fingers circling his bicep, and he looked down to see a thumb pressing into the muscle, where there was a small, purple patch. Oblong. Growing. He was sweating and he knew it would slip, and his feet began to slide, and what if they cut him deep enough to bleed? What if he bled out, like his mom had? What if he died and they never told Dean?

He tried struggling, he had to get to Dean to tell him he wasn't dead. But he felt something shoving hard against his foot, like a runner's block, keeping him there, and he leaned into the wall. Hot all over, wanting to feel cool, their room was so cool, him and Dean in the dark, Dean's soft hands, and his mouth curving into a small smile against Sam's neck. He wanted to be there. Not here. Not with the razor flashing silver for a second before thin moustache guy pushed it down, into Sam's skin, and a second later he felt it, nerves screaming, like he was being ripped open by it, and the orderly was going to keep going.

"Hold him still," said thin moustache guy. He flicked the razor to the left and Sam felt it as he hit the tip of the needle. Really _felt_ it, the hard metal bit that felt huge and the razor, hitting it, like a hammer, a huge hammer. The orderly flicked it again.

"Get me those thin pliers," he said, "and who's got the antiseptic?"

The orderly swiped his arm and Sam couldn't stop looking because all of him was focused there on that spot, the purple blotch growing beneath his skin as the orderly dug the pliers in and the bright red blood welling up, greasy and thin. Slipping down his arm. He could see it splatting on the floor.

With one large, hard tug, the orderly yanked with the pliers. Sam could see something very small glinting in the teeth of the pliers and the orderly looked around, raising his eyebrows for his pals to see how good he was. How fast. Sam spit at him.

The thin moustache orderly wiped the side of his face, barely damp, and jerked his head to the side.

"Christ, who's got that sedative?"

They wiped Sam's right arm and shot him full of something to keep him calm, and Sam made himself hold still for that because he didn't want to go through the cutting and the slicing again. And he was tired, tired of fighting and screaming, and where was Dean? His left arm got cleaned and bandaged while the swimmy feeling oozed through his system. The stuff was fast. He'd almost forgotten that, it was fast and it was cold and it made him feel like he was dying.

"Get him down there, I'll go do the paperwork. You guys up for the game on Saturday?"

It made him want to cry. Before, it hadn't mattered, every day had been like this, with a certain kind of orderly who didn't care, who was only doing his job. Hands on him, objective and calm, voices giving orders, more hands making him take his pills. Strapping him down. Wiping his face and giving him water after. That had been the way it had been, that was all. You just had to bear it.

Now he'd known Dean, felt Dean. Kissed Dean. Sleeping or awake, Dean had been there. And with Dean had come a different sort of orderly, orderlies whose names he knew. Greer, with his calm gaze or Rubio, quiet but attentive. And even Neland. Pissed off but very aware, and very devoted to his towels. They were real people. Like people might be outside of the hospital that Sam had not known of before, but now was going to lose.

As they dragged him to the Treatment room, Sam kept up a stream of words, words that he thought would convince them not to do this, not to hurt him, not to take him away from his Dean, But no one listened. With efficient hands, they took off all his clothes, took off everything, leaving him naked in the bright glare of the overhead bulb, while one of the orderlies set up the table and the hose. Sam shivered as they went about their business, and someone came over with a cupful of pills and Sam backed away. All the way to the smooth brick walls, his bare skin twitching at the cold, pressing hard, wanting to melt into the pale green color and away. To the other side, where there was only grey and no hurting.

"Sam, you need to take these."

Sam wrapped his arms around himself and looked at what the orderly was holding. There were four pills, like from before. Before Dean had told him to stop taking them, and which Sam had done, each day feeling more like himself, more normal, level. Calm. Yes, the blue man was still there and the vampires and all of it. But in a distant way, he could think about those any time he wanted. But why bother with that, when Dean was there in front of him, and so nice and brave, and looking at Sam?

Sam shook his head. His hair fell in his eyes. He pressed his mouth shut tight.

"Damnit, Sam, I get off in five minutes, now will you just take these?"

Someone pulled on Sam's arm and his bare feet slipped on the slanted floor, and he landed hard on his backside on the cement. He felt the drain with the edges of his toes and curled away from it, up against the wall, tucking his knees in tight. His fists hurt from hitting Dean, and maybe there was a bruise on his arm from where Dean had grabbed at him to get him to stop.

He couldn't take the pills because Dean had said not to. Dean had said that would make him feel better to stop and it had. Dean said no pills, therefore, no pills. Not ever. Not even one, even if Dean was mad at him now.

The two orderlies stood over him, looking at him. Sam shivered and held on tighter to his knees.

"This is unbelievable," said one.

"At least he's not peeing or shitting himself," said the other one.

" _Yet_ ," said the first one. "The day is still young. Anyway, he's fucking hung like a bear, look."

The second orderly laughed a bit, which echoed against the walls and punched into Sam's ears. Sam cringed against the wall, thinking that they couldn't touch him because everything he was belonged to Dean.

"Yeah, no kidding," said the orderly. "Alright, I'll get the tube."

At first Sam didn't know what they meant, but when the orderly brought it over, he remembered. There was a long tube. At one end it was narrow, the end blunted, and at the other end was a cone so they could put pills or water in or whatever they needed to get inside the patient. Sam clamped his mouth shut and looked away. Maybe if he didn't see it, it wouldn't be there.

"Where's the smaller tube? That'll never go through his nose."

"Couldn't find it; this is the mouth one."

The orderly sighed. "Mouth it is, then."

The orderlies jumped on him, slamming into him with their combined weight, and Sam went down, his head banging hard on the cement floor, the drain only inches away from his nose. He could smell the sour smell of the drain, the old water laying in the bottom, shit, urine, maybe a mouse nest or two.

Shuddering he tried to pull back, but one of the orderlies was clamping on his nose with hard fingers and after a second of trying not to, his lungs were screaming for air, and even though he tried to think of Dean, tried not to think of anything else, he had to breathe. His mouth opened and they shoved a piece of plastic in along the side of his mouth, grating like it was made of rough iron, hurting, and then he tasted blood as it oozed back along his tongue.

"Fuck it," he heard. "I don't want this to be--get the lube. No sense making it worse."

Sam's whole body was going numb now, his head swimming above the floor like it wasn't being held down. But he could feel it, everything, the orderly's fingers as they pressed against his lips, pressing them further open, the dusty smell of new plastic, the slick of the lube, the taste of the rubber, the feel of it along the side of his throat as they pushed.

"You sure he's not going to choke?"

"No, the shot relaxes him, and it'll work, but--here, hold this."

There was a slight pressure as the tube was pushed down his throat. The orderlies went slow, but he almost wished they would just shove it and get it over with. But no, like the slide of a snake, it was insidious, filling him up from inside, pressing against his throat till he almost couldn't breathe around it. Almost. He felt the thin, shivery stream of air that he was still getting. And then he heard the clatter of pills as they came down the tube, the gurgle of water following, his stomach expanding as the water hit it, and the stir of acid as his gut roiled in surprise.

"Take it out and hold his mouth closed, _fast_. Otherwise, he'll puke."

The tube was whipped out of him so fast it burned, and Sam's eyes prickled. He couldn't quite cry, couldn't wrench up his face hard enough, couldn't do anything but flop on the floor as he watched their feet.

They stood up, they moved to the table, they did things. He heard the hose being turned on, and felt hands on his arms and legs as they lifted him to the table. Felt the weight of the sheet as it was wrapped tightly around him. It became white, all white as his stomach punched him from the inside, as his lungs felt like they were being crushed as they streamed the water all over him. It felt like they were packing him in ice. He could only feel the cold. He couldn't even see. He heard the click of the lights go out, but couldn't tell the difference between that and before. It was all the same. White. White. White.

Deanless white.

 

**Chapter 19**

Outside of the window, through the bars, it was raining. Dean's eyes were open but he didn't realize it until they started to burn, staring at yet another window that he couldn't get out of. And that he was facing another day of clouds pressing the sky, of white hallways and lines of men shambling from one pallid setting to the next. Orderlies and doctors standing by, watching everything and writing it down on their clipboards.

And he was in the bed. The night nurse must have found him on the floor and lifted him back in the bed, maybe even gotten some help. How the hell had Dean slept through that?

He sat up and shoved back the sheet and the cover. He felt like crap. His thigh was tender, his lip was swollen. He knew what was physically wrong with him and it was nothing a few more aspirin and a hot shower wouldn't cure. The ache in his heart had no such easy solution.

The door opened without anyone knocking; it was the orderly with the morning supplies, the pills and a disposable razor. He'd even brought breakfast, which he placed on the stand next to the bed.

"Good to see you're up, Dean, you need to get a move on." As if Dean had been dawdling for hours.

"Got any aspirin?"

"No," said the orderly. He handed Dean the paper cup of pills and one of water. When Dean didn't take it, he put it on the stand next to the breakfast tray. "Dr. Silvers says shower, shit, and shave, he didn't say anything about aspirin. And you have a meeting with Dr. Logan as soon as you are ready, if not sooner."

"I had aspirin last night," Dean said, standing up.

The orderly looked at his chart. "That was a sleeping pill," he said. "Which aspirin is contraindicated for. Take your meds, please."

Dean glowered at the orderly as he left, but it saved him from having to pretend to take the pills. Fucking bastards had slipped a sleeping pill on him. He went to the bathroom and flushed the meds down the toilet, his hand shaking with anger. The breakfast could get cold for all he cared, he only wanted the milk anyway. He drank it down, standing there.

As he shaved, he didn't let himself think about Sam. If he did, he wouldn't be able to bide his time, but then, why was he biding it again? Because it was nice here? It was that no longer. They kept giving him and Sam drugs that they did not need, treatment that wasn't helping Sam get over his amnesia, and kept wresting control away the second either of them showed any improvement. He wanted to get them far away so that nobody could ever do that to them again. He had his plan to get them out, but he needed to fix things with Sam And he needed Sam to forgive him, even if he could never really forgive himself.

He tried not to look at his own eyes in the mirror, with the light glaring down from the single bulb. They weren't Samless eyes this time, he had Sam even if Sam was half a hospital away. His lip throbbed as he pulled his mouth taut to shave across his chin; he concentrated on that instead. Then he hopped in the shower; it was nice to have a shower again, though it made him think of the bathtub in their room, and that was unproductive. He got out of the shower, forcing himself to not think about it. It wouldn't help Sam if he, Dean, kept waffling back and forth.

Getting dressed, he realized he was shaking. There was no telling whether Dr. Logan would discover that Sam was no longer on his meds, nor how pissed off she'd be if she were to ever find out just who'd talked Sam into that. Or how pissed she'd be if she found out about the rest of it; he didn't imagine places like this would look very kindly on what he and Sam were doing in their spare time.

The orderly who came to get him and take him to Dr. Logan's office was Rubio. Dean wondered where the man had been, why Dean hadn't seen him recently, but Rubio didn't say anything and Dean didn't want to ask. But it was an interesting choice in orderlies; had it been Greer or someone like him, it might mean that Dr. Logan was expecting some kind of trouble that only an orderly with Greer's heft could handle.

As they walked down the hall all Dean could think about was Sam, who had been in Treatment all night. And Dr. Logan, who might decide that Dean was falling down on the job and that she needed to break up the experiment and take Sam away from him. His heart started to pound. For that reason only, they needed to get out; he didn't want anyone ever having the power to do that, to take Sam from him, again.

By the time they got to Dr. Logan's office, he was sweating dark circles under his armpits. Why the hell couldn't crazy people get antiperspirant too?

Rubio knocked on the door and Dean heard Dr. Logan say, "Come in," and when Rubio opened the door, she said, "You can wait outside, if you would. I think we'll be alright here."

Another good sign. If Dr. Logan felt she could handle the fallout, how much fallout was she expecting? Maybe not much.

He felt better until he stepped into the room, her office with the overloaded bookshelves, the sun banking off the windows, Dr. Logan sitting behind her desk. Because there was Sam, sitting in a thin unmatched chair, shoulders rolled forward, arms tight to his sides, hands clasped in his lap, his hair falling in his face. He didn't look up when Dean came in. Dean stifled the urge to run to him and gather him in his arms and kiss him and whisper against Sam's neck how sorry he was, so _fucking_ sorry, and how it was all Dean's fault. Sam needed care and he needed it _right_ now.

"Have a seat, Dean," said Dr. Logan, interrupting Dean's thoughts, and Dean thought he saw Sam twitch at the sound of her voice, and then he was still.

Dean sat down, looking only at Sam though he knew, in the back of his head, that it would probably be a good idea, right about now, to give Dr. Logan his full attention, rather than give in to impulses that would only mess Sam up even more. But from where he sat he could see that Sam was pale, with a grey tinge to his skin that was the color of milk whey. There was a faint line of sweat along Sam's jaw; Dean wanted Sam to look at him, wanted to touch him so badly, he almost reached out to him. But Dr. Logan's voice interrupted him.

"Dean, did you hear any of what I said just now?"

Dean made himself sit up and look at her; it felt like he ripped a piece of himself off to look away from Sam.

"I need to talk about yesterday's incident," she said, her eyes observing him behind her glasses.

Dean nodded. Of course she did.

"Violence is not permitted in any case, and is of grave concern, especially considering Sam's record--Dean, I need you to look at me."

He'd not known that his attention had wandered, but his eyes had latched onto the red, twisting marks on Sam's wrists and stayed there, while his stomach started to spike in on itself. They'd _hurt_ Sam. But Dean had hurt him worse. Dean looked at Dr. Logan and swallowed.

"Dean, I find it interesting, considering your own personal state, that you're more concerned about Sam than you are about yourself."

There wasn't much he could say to that, no way he could really explain. Besides, she was wearing her most clinical expression through those dark-rimmed glasses of hers, it didn't bode well for Dean trying for the sympathy vote.

"Lady, I'm fine," he said. "What the hell did you guys give him, how long did you--"

He slammed his mouth shut. He hadn't meant to star hammering at her like that, but the little shake of her head had set him off.

Surprising him, she answered. "His usual course of meds, Thorazine, Flupentixol, and so on, and an extra sedative, he--"

She rattled on while he felt sick to his stomach, and guilty, knowing he'd handled it all wrong. They'd given Sam his full course of pills when he wasn't used to that. He probably felt like shit. Dean'd fucked it up by taking away the one thing that seemed to help keep Sam calm, and then by taking away everything else. As Dean watched, Sam's shoulders quivered, and he'd still not looked up. Without meaning to, Dean reached out to touch Sam's wrist with his fingers. At the touch, Sam quivered but didn't pull away.

"Dean," she said, pulling his attention to her. "He had Treatment for a few hours and then spent the night in restraints, which is standard for violent patients who are out of control. You know that."

He did, actually.

"This is my fault--"

"No, Dean, it's not. Sam attacked you and it's up to him to apologize so we can get closure and determine what to do next."

Sam opened his mouth and lifted himself up a little bit, like he'd been coached for just this moment and was going to do exactly what was expected of him. So he could be the good and obedient patient he was always striving to be. Images slammed into Dean: Sam worrying about having one foot on the floor when the lights went out or scanning the dining hall when picking out tomato shits from his spaghetti, Sam coming to Dean's bed because he was lonely and missed his brother so much he cried.

" _No_ ," said Dean, clasping Sam's wrist. "He doesn't need to apologize to me for that. _Ever_."

She might have been surprised by the forcefulness of his response, he didn't know, but when he looked at her, she seemed confused, with her frowning mouth.

"It was my fault, that fight." Dean felt his mouth tighten and he prepared himself to talk her down until she agreed with him.

She nodded and seemed prepared to listen, even if only to observe one more level of troublesome behavior from her patient, Dean Doe, for her clinical notebooks. Dean took a breath.

"I was messing around, roughhousing." He circled Sam's wrist with his fingers once and then made himself let go. "I was screwing around with the shovels and I think I scared him and he reacted, and then it got out of hand. He didn't mean it."

"Again, I find it interesting your level of concern and your willingness to shoulder the blame like this."

She said it like there was something wrong with that, like maybe she expected Dean to crumble under the onslaught of her institutional psychobabble and point the finger at Sam.

Beside him, Sam took a sudden breath. "I hit him in the head." His voice was whispering and low. Then he stopped to clear his throat as Dean watched, his heart racing. "Because he said--"

In two seconds, Dean was going to have a heart attack, right there in Dr. Logan's office, because Sam was about to say out loud that it was because _Dean said we couldn't have sex any more, especially since we are going to escape soon_.

Dean wasn't sure which one would be the worse confession. He wanted to grab at Sam and shut him the hell up, but it wouldn't do any good because then Dr. Logan would be even more curious about what Sam had to say. Maybe he could cover up whatever Sam said, put it down to mental confusion, fatigue, or whatever crap he could come up with. He realized he was griping the edges of his seat hard enough to make his fingers hurt. And that in another second, Dr. Logan's attention was going to be alerted to that and move from Sam to Dean. Unclasping his fingers, he let them become fists in his lap.

"Because he wouldn't let go of the damn shovel," said Sam, finally. The last word ended on a pant, as if Sam had just come off of running a sprint. The corner of his eyes flicked in Dean's direction. "So I'm not sorry I hit him, but I _am_ sorry I hit him so hard."

There was a little silence that followed this remark, and while he could tell it surprised Dr. Logan too, he wanted to stand up and cheer. Sam had just _lied_ through his teeth in good old Winchester style; if anything was indicative that getting Sam off the meds was the right thing to do, this was. It had cost him a bit, but it had been very brave. But instead of cheering, Dean looked at Dr. Logan as he gave her his best solemn attentiveness.

"Just some roughhousing," Dean said, adding to the mix.

"That got out of hand. I see."

She got up from her desk to take off her glasses and look out of the window. Dean could hear Sam breathing a little hard and longed to walk him out the front door and outside to the fresh air and rain-dotted sunshine and never look back. But they were at least two locked doors away from that, and there was who knew how many orderlies along the way.

Sam still wouldn't look at him. And in a minute, Dr. Logan was going to make a decision, was going to separate them, was going to take Sam away and punish him some more--

"Dr. Logan," Dean began, desperation making his voice thick.

She turned to look at him, holding up her hand while she put her glasses back on. "Dean, I'm not unaware of your improved progress since we began this experiment, nor of your affection for Sam. Nor am I unaware that except for a bobble or two along the way and a marked dislike for tomatoes, that Sam has been improving as well--"

"He just needs more time, he--"

"And you need to know of my desire to have this experiment work. It's good for patients, it's good for morale, and documented correctly and repeated, it could bring in more funding from the state."

For a second, he didn't understand what she was saying, exactly. There was a small smile that might or might not be there on her face, he didn't know.

"You just need to be sure that what happened yesterday doesn't happen again." Dr. Logan nodded and seemed satisfied with that.

Now Dean was totally confused. "What are you saying, that the experiment is okay, that we'll keep doing it?'

For a minute she just looked at him, blinking through her black-rimmed glasses. Then she sat down with a little laugh, while Dean swallowed and wished he didn't feel so slow. Wished he could just smack her right in her stupid, smiling face.

"You take your responsibilities seriously, I see. Yes, the experiment continues, with fair warning. No more outbursts, no more violence. We'll also take Sam's artwork about the blue man under consideration, because in spite of Miss Windle's _dire_ messages and warnings, I think he's making progress there as well."

Dean knew that his mouth had fallen open but he couldn't help it. He would get to _keep_ Sam, keep him close, keep looking out for him. Keep on planning to get out.

"Why don't you boys go down to the laundry and work there for the morning?," she said, smiling. "I know Laundry makes Sam calm and that's what he needs today. I'll let Neland know to take it easy, you know how picky he is."

She stood and Dean stood up and then, slowly, like that was a signal and he'd been watching for it the whole time, Sam stood up. Head still down, hair hiding his face. Like he'd been looking out of the corners of his eyes, afraid and wound up and just on the verge of coming apart. If he'd not been pumped full of stuff he would have flipped and Dean would not have blamed him if he had.

Dean's hands wanted to become fists, he wanted to smash out at something, not just for them fucking with Sam, for pulling him in all kinds of directions, for giving him meds that he didn't need. _Treatment_ he didn't need. No, the worse part was the nerve, the fucking _gall_ Dr. Logan had, to imagine that she had the right to say when he could or could not be with his own brother. She held the power, she held the keys, she controlled it all, and she could say _yes_ or _no_ to it any time she pleased. Now she was saying _yes_ , tomorrow she could say _no_ and there was nothing Dean could do to stop her. Sam was his, always had been, always would be, and he'd be GOD damned if this stupid bitch ever, ever had any say in that ever again.

"So, Dean," she asked, her voice pleasant. "Are we good? Headed for Laundry, being cooperative and flexible?"

Dean was breathing hard. He almost punched her then, but beside him, still standing, head bowed, Sam twitched, his whole body tightening up, like he could feel the thrum of Dean's nerves. That was bad, he didn't want to upset Sam, Sam had been through enough. Dean made himself slow down, wiped his palms on his pants. He smiled, his face aching with it, eyes still burning like they were on fire.

"Yeah," he said, a little breathy. "I didn't like the infirmary so much, though." Giving her that to chew on so she might ignore the rest of it.

"Oh?" she asked, but she was already looking at the files on her desk, like she was prepping for her next appointment.

"Yeah," said Dean. He was already turning away, like he was totally distracted by the fun anticipation of folding towels. "It's lonely there."

"Well," said Dr. Logan, bending to write something down on a pad. "See that you stay out of it next time."

Dean vowed that he would. And walked beside Sam down the corridor toward the laundry room. He didn't reach out to touch Sam or try to talk to him or get him to lift his head. But he walked close, so that his shoulder brushed Sam's shoulder, so the warmth could grow between them in the cool air. Not close enough to feel Sam's heartbeat, but close enough. Close enough for now.

*

They were in the laundry room, the hot air whirring around the dyers as they spun, the smell of soap tart in the air as the washers sloshed and whined under the weight of all those damp sheets and towels. Dean was there, and he was talking to Neland, who was trying to have two conversations at once, talking to someone about the hotels in Peoria while he was looking at Dean and Sam and reaching for his clipboard to update it. Neland hung up the phone.

Sam could feel Dean at his side, close like he had been as they'd walked down the corridor. Dean was strung tight, like one of Neland's sheets through a wringer, pulled and pulled and soon the end would come and it would snap. And he was being quiet, not really touching Sam, but Sam knew. Could feel it. Dean was angry about before, when Sam wouldn't listen to him, and who ended up taking the pills that Dean told him _not_ to take. And while Sam had been in Treatment, who knows what Dean had been subjected to. And it was all Sam's fault. He'd screwed up. Worse than that, he'd hurt Dean, who still had the marks of Sam's fists on his fact, his mouth swollen, the side of his cheek darkened by a bruise. Sam didn't want to look at that, so he kept his eyes on his feet. Yes. They were still there.

Someone tugged him to walk over to the folding table, and Sam let him. It turned out to be Dean, who was mad, but still taking care of him. Dean started folding towels, and nudged Sam to do the same. The laundry room was hot, and Sam's stomach was starting to leap up and down, like a little man on a trampoline. Sam could picture him, laughing and leaping, and all the while his leaps got higher and higher. Sam tried to make his hands fold, but the towels felt too hot, too rough. His hands shook a bit, and he knew Dean was looking at them. In a second, he was going to get hauled out into the corridor for a stern yelling at. Maybe Dean would be the one to do the yelling. At least then Sam could get it over with.

Damp sweat broke out along Sam's forehead. It was really so hot in the laundry room, not comfortably warm, but hot, like a greenhouse. There was no cool air, not even a sluggish breeze. Just the tight, still air, clinging to him. He could feel sweat along his hairline and the tumble of his stomach as the little man fell off the tramp. Maybe he broke his neck as he hit the floor. Sam's stomach twisted at the thought of it.

"You okay?"

That was Dean's voice. Sam knew it like he knew his own. It was low and concerned and Sam wondered when Dean was going to start the yelling. But he couldn't reply back because then he would just start crying. And he felt pretty safe in guessing that it would just make everyone upset and get him taken away till he could remember how to behave appropriately in a laundry room. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and looked at it. His skin glistened from the sweat. He wondered if it tasted like salt. Wondered if he should try tasting it.

"Hey, Neland," said Dean, and Sam realized that Neland was standing right there and he'd never even heard him come up.

"What's going on here? Why isn't he folding towels?"

This was directed at Dean rather than himself, Sam realized. Because of course, Dean was in charge and Sam's opinion didn't matter. He remembered that from somewhere else, feeling that way. His brother standing there and saying where they were to go and when and how fast. Always behind the wheel.

This thought was snapped away as Dean touched his fingers to Sam's arm. It felt like there was an electric current coming through those fingers right into Sam's gut. For a second he wasn't sure whether it felt good or bad, so he stayed still. Kept his feet planted. Swallowed.

"He doesn't look so good," said Neland, staring at Sam.

"He had Treatment," said Dean. "And isolation and restraint and pills and crap."

"Is he going to puke on my towels?" asked Neland, his voice rough, like it always was. It was a big responsibility, running a laundry room in a loony bin. Sam wanted to say something sarcastic and sharp, at the same time wondering where it came from, what words to say, and how to say them, to wound someone without even touching them.

"I don't know," said Dean. The pitch of his voice was worried, but Sam just stared at his feet. Swaying.

"Maybe he should take a break," said Neland. "Take him to the Day room, I don't want him throwing up here and getting that smell in my towels."

Sam felt Dean hesitate.

"Go on," said Neland. "I'll call it down. Just walk fast, I don't have anyone to spare to take you. Two minutes, okay?"

Dean pulled him and they walked. Fast. Sam knew the corridor they were in, sensed the fading smell and heat of the laundry room. He recognized the doorway to the Day room, the same one from before, now brightly lit by the sun coming through the streaky windows instead of being pelted by darkness and rainfall. An orderly met them at the door, and as they walked in, Sam focused on the tail of the phone cord, still swinging in lazy, slow arcs against the wall. The room was empty except for the three men at Sam and Dean's speed puzzle from before, dressed in robes and slippers, the sash of the robes tied behind each of them in the exact precise knot, trailing behind them through the gaps in the chairs. Like mice tails.

"Hey," said the orderly, holding his book to one side. "Have a seat. You're with me. If he has to puke, do me a favor and grab a trashcan? The stuff they use, that Zorbitall, smells just as bad and lingers just as long. And no running around or screaming or I have to call or press the button. You guys know the drill, okay?" The orderly nodded and then stopped talking and sat down and went back to reading just like that, like somebody had flipped a switch. The guys at the puzzle never even looked up.

Dean must have nodded or said yes, because he was pulling Sam away from the doorway, towards the windows under which someone had shoved one of the couches. The sun poured through the windows at an angle, flooding the floor, but leaving the couch in the shadow of the window ledge. The couch was old and covered in leatherette that was cracked in places.

Dean sat down on the couch and looked up at Sam. Sam looked at Dean because he knew he couldn't look at his feet any more. Not when Dean was looking at him like that. With dark circles under eyes that glinted and were round and searched Sam's face. Like he expected to find something there.

"Hey, Sam," said Dean, his voice soft. There was something in the words that curled around the base of Sam's spine.

"Come and sit down. Or, here, lay down." Dean patted his thigh and Sam felt his eyebrows go up. "Come on now, get your head down. It'll feel nice. I'll hold real still. You have a nap, and then we'll have lunch."

Sam tried to hold his mouth still from trembling, but it was really hard to do that. Especially when Dean's voice sounded so nice, and Dean's hand reached out to cup the back of his elbow and tugged. Just a little. Soft, like a mouse's whiskers. Sam thought about the mouse nest in the drain of the Treatment room, about the cold, slanted floor that was painted a dull, industrial grey. How they both knew what that room looked and smelled like. How Dean knew where he'd been, and didn't look at all like he felt Sam deserved it.

"Sam," said Dean, low. Sweet. Tugging.

Sam let himself be pulled down to the couch, confused still, sitting there for a moment. Letting Dean tug some more until his head was pulled down low enough so that his face was resting lightly on Dean's thigh. Dean patted his shoulder, and Sam felt his whole body relax a little bit further. He swung his legs up, and tucked his shoulder against Dean's leg, and let his head rest fully on Dean's thigh. He let the heat of that soak up into him. Warm heat, bloodwarm heat, moving, like a current, like a river, ribbons of the scent of Dean, salt and soap, and hospital cotton soaking into him. Sam's whole body did not fit on the couch, unless he scrunched up his knees a bit, and let his feet dangle. So he did that.

"Okay now?" asked Dean.

"Uh," said Sam. Maybe it was, but it probably wasn't. He wasn't sure yet. Maybe when the room stopped moving and being so mean to him. "Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean seemed to be leaning down towards Sam, his body cupping over Sam's head, and if Sam looked up, he could see the edge of Dean's face. But his neck hurt too much to do that, so he could only do it a second.

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

"For what? For getting upset? Forget about it. My timing was bad, I didn't say--"

"I hit you," said Sam, insisting on this. Getting it out as fast as he could. "I hit you with the shovel. I punched you. Your lip is swollen. Your face--"

"Look, Sam," said Dean. He gave Sam's arm a long, slow stroke with the palm of his hand. "We're friends. We fight, okay? Sometimes we punch each other, but we're still friends. You don't remember, but I do. So trust me, okay?"

Dean, it seemed, wasn't going to listen to Sam apologize about that. So he tried something else.

"And uh--"

"What?"

Sam screwed up his face tight so he wouldn't cry. Maybe fights happened between them, like Dean said. It hadn't been fun, but maybe it was okay. Dean had said something to him he didn't like, so he'd lashed out, and Dean seemed to think that was pretty ordinary. But he had to tell Dean about the pills, because that was where he'd messed up. And he needed to tell Dean so that Dean could get mad and shout and then, hopefully, forgive Sam.

"I had to take the pills."

"Yeah," said Dean. He already knew. He didn't sound mad about it at all. "Dr. Logan said you had taken them. But why, Sam? No chance to palm them?"

"Uh, no." Sam pressed his face into Dean's thigh, and realized that the tears were trickling down his face without his realizing it. Dean's pant leg was becoming soaked. "I tried to keep my mouth shut, but they used a tube."

Dean jerked so hard, Sam's head almost fell off his lap. "That's the bruise on your mouth then," said Dean. Flat, all the emotion ironed out of it. "Shit."

Sam felt the motion of Dean's arm and tilted his head back far enough to get a glimpse of Dean scrubbing at his eyes like he wanted to scrub them right out of his head.

"And the bandage on your arm?" asked Dean, taking his hand away from his face to look at Sam. His eyes sparked.

The bandage was the arm Sam was laying on, but Dean must have seen it, either in Dr. Logan's office, or the hallway, or the laundry. It was half hidden by his sleeve, but Dean had seen it. Alert, as always, to everything that was about Sam.

"The first needle broke off," he said. Sam remembered the stab of it, and the slit the razor made, the sting of the antiseptic. The orderlies in the Treatment room had ignored the bandage, Sam recalled now, letting him keep it on even as they'd wrapped the sheet around him. "So they had to cut out the tip."

"How?" Dean asked this, his voice roughedged, like he really, really didn't want to know the answer.

"With a razor," said Sam. His arm throbbed a bit as if remembering too, but Sam didn't want to think about it anymore. "Are you mad at me? I screwed up so bad, Dean--"

Dean's hands were on him as if to shove him off, like he had that one night when Sam had suggested they have sex the way Randy was always talking about. But they didn't. They grabbed bits of Sam and pulled him close, tucking around Sam's shoulders, clasping his head. Petting him and touching him, and Dean's stomach was making these jerky little movements.

"Dean, are you mad?" Sam asked again. His chest was aching with wanting the answer, with wanting Dean's forgiveness.

For a second, Dean didn't talk. Then his hands stilled, and then lifted. He heard Dean take a breath. Then the hands were on him again, Dean's hands, stroking, long, careful strokes, along Sam's shoulder and arm, pausing even to move along his neck. Sam sighed into this, feeling his eyes shut. That was better. Better now.

"No," said Dean, swallowing. Hard. He swallowed again. So loud, Sam could hear his throat muscles working. "I'm mad at me. It's my fault."

"Dean--"

"Shut up, Sam, just for a minute. I screwed up. I didn't look at it clearly, I didn't think. When I said we couldn't--that we were going to have to stop, I never meant for you to get upset. Okay, pissed, sure, but not so that they'd take you away, and strap you to that goddamned table. Shove a tube down your throat."

Sam didn't bother to tell Dean that there were two types of tubes and the other one went up your nose. That one didn't hurt so much, just created a dull pressure at the back of your throat. Unless, of course, they left it in there too long. Then it ripped when they pulled it out, and the tube was dappled with blood afterwards. Sam's throat had been sore for a few days. That had happened only the one time, but there'd been yelling, as two orderlies had stood over Sam's bed where he was strapped down. And then Sam never saw one of the orderlies after that. But it was a story for another time. Or for never. Dean didn't need to hear that.

There was a shift in weight on the couch and Sam opened his eyes as he felt the brush of Dean's mouth on his temple, fingers pushing back his hair, the lips lingering. Dean's mouth, swollen from having been punched by Sam's fist, but soft. So soft.

Sam's arm reached up, all by itself, finding the back of Dean's neck to pull Dean's head in close. Closer. Dean didn't protest or pull back, didn't stiffen up. Instead, his body shifted under Sam's head, his thigh moving back, his ribs curling over Sam's head. His mouth was right there, and though Sam's mouth felt a little vague, he knew it when Dean's mouth was on his, a feel of silky skin, Dean's breath on his cheek. Sam tried to kiss back, his mouth fuzzy and numb, but Dean stayed poised there for a second, his thumb sweeping in front of Sam's ear, like he was trying to push back Sam's hair.

"I'm sorry too, anyway, even if you don't think I should be." Sam realized he was whispering. He cleared his throat.

Dean's body felt different now, all around him, arms and legs and his belly, gurgling low against Sam's ear. Different from the nights in the dark, or walking down the hall. It felt like Dean was circled all around Sam like it wanted to be there, had always wanted to be there. Sam felt himself slip inside of that circle, knowing the difference, knowing it wasn't a physical circle, nothing he could draw for Miss Windle. But like the blue man and the vampires and the ghost, it was real. It was Dean. "I love you, Dean," he said now, moving his mouth against Dean's mouth. Waiting for Dean to snap back to how he'd been before, even five minutes ago. But Dean didn't. He stayed close, shifting a little, but close.

"Well, okay," Dean said against Sam's skin, the curve of Sam's cheek. "Okay. Okay."

There was a sound in the hallway, footsteps on the floor like someone was coming into the Day room. And of course Dean had to sit up and lean against the couch, it must have been hard on his back to curl around Sam like that. He let the back of Dean's neck go, his hand trailing on the curve of muscle there, letting Dean guide his arm to rest along his own side. But Dean was still there, in Sam's mind, still curved around Sam. And no matter who was in the room, his hands were still on Sam. Still touching him. Petting his hair over and over until Sam fell asleep.

 

**Chapter 20**

He should have waited till they were out of the hospital to tell Sam that they couldn't be together like that anymore. He should have waited and been patient instead of getting worried and doing a half-assed job, and screwing everything up to the point where he had to start all over again. Putting Sam through Treatment, where they'd messed up his system with full doses of stuff his body simply wasn't used to anymore.

Dr. Logan had even stopped by in the dining hall, not five minutes before, to talk to Dean and mention that they were going to be keeping a sharp eye on Sam's meds, and maybe even adjusting some of them, and could Dean keep a lookout for any sudden changes? This made Dean break out in a sweat, making him shiver, because if everyone was watching Sam, it would almost be impossible to get Sam back off the meds. Especially if Sam wasn't being cooperative, if he decided that doing it Dr. Logan's way was the best way, and that Dean could shove his plan right up his ass.

Which is what the look that Sam was giving him now said, as he ate his oatmeal with only a little bit of milk and almost no sugar, having pushed Dean away when he tried to doctor it up. Scowling now, brows low over his eyes, head tucked down. He shoveled the oatmeal in, grimly, the spoon held in his tight fist.

They were back to square one, day one. Minute one. And this in spite of the moment yesterday on the couch, when Sam had pulled Dean to him, his green eyes deep and warm, his body curving towards Dean on the couch.

Where Sam had said, _I love you, Dean._

The words had spiked into Dean's heart so hard, so suddenly there and a part of him, to take them out would have meant tearing at his own flesh. He'd not known what to say to Sam, and that had been his next mistake, because afterwards, Sam had withdrawn into himself, not eating lunch, or his supper, not talking much to Dean. And in the room, sleeping in Dean's bed, yes, but out of habit. He had faced away from Dean, and the bend of his spine and the soft skin on his neck was the only glimpse of Sam that Dean got.

And in the morning, in the line outside the dining hall, Sam had taken his pills, right in front of Dean, like Dean wasn't even standing in line next to him. Which meant that he had to be feeling like crap right about now. It wasn't any good to go up and down and then up again with the meds, especially as strong as these were. And maybe that was it, the explanation for at least some of it, Sam felt like crap. And maybe the part of Sam that didn't feel like he wanted to puke was waiting for Dean to say something in response to yesterday's comment. But what could he say to that? _Sure, I love you, but we're brothers_? No, not at this stage in the game. When he got Sam out, yes, he could tell him the truth, because even if Sam freaked out, and he would, no one would be taking Sam from him. But not now, not in here.

As breakfast ended, and Dean stood up with his tray, he nudged Sam with his fingers, gently, to get Sam to look at him. When Sam did, Dean almost staggered under the weight. Sam's eyes were empty, and they weren't looking at Dean, they were looking through him.

"Hey, Sam," he said, bending close, "we're done eating, let's go. It isn't raining, maybe we'll get to go outside."

Sam opened his mouth. "The sky--" he began, and then he stopped.

Dean knew what he was going to say. _The sky is too big_. Which meant that Sam was overwhelmed, Sam was drowning. It was up to Dean to be calm, to show him out it was done. To take Sam down the path he had taken him on before, only a little faster this time. Sam had one day's worth of meds in him, and if Dean could convince him to take half and then half and then half, they could maybe leave in three days. Maybe less. If, of course, Dean could get Sam to trust him all over again. Which would mean giving Sam what he needed and wanted, without counting the cost. Even if it was weird for him, and messed him up, if it was what Sam needed, if Sam wanted them fucking in the dark, then it would just have to be. And then after, when they were out of the hospital, Dean could call it off, and tell Sam the truth. But more gently.

Dean nudged Sam again, and tipped his head to show which direction they would be walking. Sam stood up and stuck close to Dean all the way to the counter where they dropped off their trays. Sam had hardly eaten anything, Dean saw, and had only drunk one of the cartons of milk. He'd be feeling like hell come lunchtime, and thirsty besides.

They got into line, and Sam was at his elbow the whole time they walked down the hall. It might have been habit, or the fact that Sam didn't know anyone else, but it was someplace to start. In fact it was the only place to start.

At the door, as the line clumped to a stop, Greer was handing out jackets, and Dean stepped forward to take two of them. Greer raised his eyebrows as if to ask Dean how it was going, and Dean shrugged. Then Greer turned to someone else as Dean held out the jacket for Sam.

"It's windy," he said. "You need help with this?"

After hesitating a second, Sam shook his head no and took the jacket. As he put it on, he rolled his shoulders and fumbled with the zipper. Dean stepped in and gently took the zipper and latched it together, zipping it up Sam's chest, letting his fingers stay on Sam longer than they needed to.

"Stay close, Sam," he said. "Don't get blown away."

Sam looked at him, his whole body still like he'd forgotten how to move it. His eyes were on Dean, trying to focus, tilted down at the corners, and he reached out one of his hands. It was only a small motion, but Dean caught it and reached out to touched the curve of Sam's palm with his fingers.

"It's going to be okay, Sam," he said. "I promise."

*

They worked outside in the yard, picking up stones and pebbles from the emerald green lawn. Dean was beginning to suspect that the orderlies went around at night spreading the stones that the patients had picked up the day before. Otherwise, how did the stones get there? They didn't have legs, and there were always so many of them. This idea supported Sam's theory that the work was the important part, the therapy, and the results didn't matter at all.

Beside him, with his shoulders down and his hands hanging at his side as he held the bucket, Sam stood there and watched as Dean picked up the stones. That was okay, it didn't matter who did the work because it wasn't real work anyway. What mattered was that Sam wasn't saying anything, just watching the yard and Dean, through sidelong glances, as if afraid that someone would catch him watching and come down hard. Dean didn't like Sam being like this, afraid and anxious, and at any second ready to bolt.

If they were anywhere else but where they were, he would have figured that Sam was moping, and sometimes the best thing to do was to leave that alone. At least for a while. In the past, Dean would wait, and then start in on a conversation as if he fully expected Sam to join in. And, eventually, Sam would. Only this Sam was on meds, and was surrounded by orderlies and mental patients. Dean didn't want to just let Sam mope himself into more Treatment. The orderlies especially were being attentive, so Dean had to pick his words carefully.

He stood up, the wind whisking around the collar of his jacket and down his neck. He dropped his small handful of rocks in the bucket and tugged at his collar, making it stand up.

"I think these are the same rocks from before," he said. Keeping it casual.

Sam held the bucket in both hands, letting the bucket rest against his thighs. He looked down, his hair falling in his eyes, and he stayed that way so long he seemed to be praying. His mouth was drawn together in a wobbly line. Dean was about to reach out and make sure he'd not zoned out when Sam looked up. His eyes were wet like he wanted to cry but wasn't going to let himself; crying got you noticed, and that was bad.

Dean watched him take a deep breath. "I'm pretty sure you're right," Sam said, his voice toneless. But his eyes held Dean's as if waiting for a signal, some clue. He wanted something from Dean, maybe even needed it.

Dean was about to answer, to say something about the stones, or the orderlies and their plots to enslave the patients when Sam's whole body jerked forward. Towards Dean. He was only inches away now, so that whatever he said would be only for Dean's ears. He felt Sam's indrawn breath, the skin on his neck prickling.

"I wasn't sure," said Sam, softly, very softly, looking at the ground, though Dean could see the shine in his eyes, "if you still wanted me to go with you. So I took my meds, but--if you want me to, I'll stop. I wasn't sure, but you keep being nice to me. If you still want me--to go with you, I will."

Dean felt his eyebrows go up as he got it. Sam was remembering what Dean had said, about leaving Sam behind, and now he needed to be told that that wouldn't happen. Ever. It sliced through his heart that Sam had believed him, even for a minute, and he stepped in closer, circling Sam's arm with his fingers, tucking his head towards the hollow of Sam's neck, so only Sam could hear. He thought about Sam saying, _I love you, Dean_ , only to get Dean's hollow reply.

"I _want_ you," Dean said, letting the words mean what they would. "I want you to come with me, okay?" He was close enough to feel the heat from Sam's skin and he let himself press his mouth close, feeling the rapid pulse of Sam's heartbeat. Kissed the spot under Sam's ear, standing right there on the lawn, Sam's sweat and salt sparking beneath his tongue in that quick second. "I want to get you out of here, so I can have you to myself and we'll always be together."

He felt Sam leaning now, leaning into the kiss, saw his eyes closing, and whether what he was saying was a lie or the truth, Sam believed it, needed it, just what Dean was giving him.

"I want us out of here so no one can ever take you from me again. So yeah, stop taking the pills, okay? Half and half and half. Just like before."

Sam dipped his head now, his bangs falling like a curtain. His shoulders rose and fell as his whole body shuddered and now he _was_ crying. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to hide it from Dean. Fucking meds, messing Sam up, though Dean knew it was his fault, the whole thing, otherwise Sam would never have been in the spot where he ever thought that Dean didn't--

"Everything alright here?"

Dean looked up. It was Greer, and a little behind him were two other orderlies, standing by in case Sam went off. Dean shifted his body so that he was blocking Sam from their view, and pointed to Sam's bucket, a useless distraction.

"He's just tired," said Dean. "I guess they changed his meds, or something, but he's just tired."

And in his mind he was thinking that if they tried to take Sam away, now, this time, that he would fucking _kill_ them. He would take them down, starting with Greer, with his bare hands, even though he knew that in the quick second following that, the other orderlies would have him, and he'd lose Sam anyway. His eyes felt hot as he made himself not tighten up, keeping his hands loose, not fists. Not baring his teeth, not rising on his toes. Not ready. He was outmanned and outgunned, and Sam was the prize he was not willing to risk. He was shaking hard enough though, he knew Greer saw it, and then Sam stepped up, coming in front of Dean. His bucket banged the side of Dean's leg, the cold, hard metal, waking him up.

Dean watched Sam lift his head and push his shoulders back. It was an effort for him, and it happened too fast for Dean to know what Sam was thinking, only that Sam was putting himself in the line of fire.

"He worries," said Sam, looking at the orderlies, at Greer, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Like a mother hen." He curved his mouth in a pout, and actually seemed to glare, and Dean realized what he was doing. In spite of the meds and his own confusion, Sam was rising into the moment, putting himself aside so he could say something to the orderlies to make them back off so that Dean wouldn't have to kill them. Or whatever it was that Sam thought Dean had been about to do. Dean had to help him.

"So you guys spread the rocks around at night or what?" Dean gestured to the green lawn, and the white fence all around it. "I mean, they don't just walk in here at night, right? But there's always more of them."

Greer smiled, the first, honest smile Dean had seen on him, wide, almost laughing. "Looks like you're getting better, Dean Doe," he said. Then he nodded, and walked away, waving the orderlies to go with him.

Dean turned to look at Sam, who was gazing at him with quiet, watchful eyes. Waiting to see if Dean needed anything else, any more rescuing. Dean tipped his head down, and rubbed his eyes, scrubbed at them, and swallowed the thickness in his throat. In spite of everything, Sam had come back to him, and trusted him and saved him from himself, and if that wasn't love, Dean didn't know what was.

*

At lunch, Sam took half his pills and spit the other half into his napkin, which he handed to Dean to get rid of. He'd never seen anyone get patted down, but it would probably be a disaster if someone took it in their heads to search him, and then found the pills. Dean was better at this sort of slight of hand thing, and was such a good patient that he wasn't being watched by everyone.

It would feel better when the meds were out of his system again, but the best part was that Dean didn't seem to be mad at him and had said _yes_. Yes, that he wanted Sam, yes, he wanted Sam for himself, out of the hospital. Sam had messed up by taking his pills that morning, but Dean hadn't yelled, though it had taken Sam most of work therapy to screw up his courage to ask whether Dean still wanted him. And Dean did, he'd _said_ so. Sam ate his lunch, pea soup and cauliflower with pale, pretend orange cheese laced over the top, thinking that there wasn't anything he couldn't do now, now that he had Dean back. His Dean.

Who was looking at him now, with that look in his eyes. That look with the concern and the caring behind those sparkles that only wanted to joke around and make Sam laugh. It was easier for Dean to do that, and how hard it must have been for Dean to say _yes_ to Sam, like he had. Without covering it up or pretending it had been something else he'd meant to say. That made Sam feel warm inside, all over, like a blanket tumbling over and over in a dryer, comfortable and easy and soothing.

That's the way Dean looked now, like there was nothing better that he wanted to do than sit there, with his head tilted to one side, a little dimple curving at the corner of his mouth, watching Sam. Making sure Sam ate, making plans in his head to get him and Sam out of there so they could be together always. Sam knew that the meds made him simple, made him think in little chunks, so understanding that kind of bigger picture was a ways away. But he remember how he felt being off the meds, how he could think and talk and laugh. And how Dean wanted that for him. And that was love, even if Dean hadn't actually said the words.

He struggled to think of something to say, though his thoughts at the moment were swimming through the residue of meds, and he couldn't. He was thirsty besides, so he drank both of his cartons of milk, and was wondering where he could get some water, when Dean pushed one of his cartons of milk over to Sam.

"Drink it," said Dean. "I know you're thirsty, we'll make sure we stop at a water fountain."

Dean looked like he wasn't going to take _no_ for an answer, so Sam took the milk and drank it. Then he looked at Dean's tray, where Dean had hardly eaten anything because he was worried. Sam didn't want him to be. At least, not so much that he wouldn't eat.

"I'm going to be okay, Dean," he said. "We're going to be okay." He wanted to reach out to pat Dean's hand where it was clenching his spoon just a little too tightly. But he didn't. Orderlies were watching and Dean didn't like it like that, all showy, showing off, touching with people watching. He liked it quiet and private. In the dark. Sam closed his eyes, remembering.

"Sam?"

Sam opened his eyes, felt himself smile, liking the way his name sounded, the way it felt, when Dean said it. But he didn't like Dean's brow all crinkled up with worry

"I'm good," he said. Then to distract Dean, he asked, "How many days till we--you know."

"Two, maybe three," Dean said, understanding him. "I'll help you keep track, okay? Half and half and half."

Sam nodded, and followed Dean as he got up and took his tray to the counter. Dean's tray was mostly full, and Sam, as much as he'd tried, couldn't eat all his cauliflower. As he dumped the remains in the trash, he realized how long it'd been since he'd worried about getting in trouble for not finishing all of his food. It was much nicer to eat what you wanted and not think about the rules. Because around here, Dean wrote the rules, him and Dean together. Only nobody knew it, and by the time they found out, Sam and Dean would be long gone. He walked next to Dean down the hallway, smiling. Saw Dean looking at him, and tipped his head, still smiling, so that Dean would know everything was alright. Because it was.

*

It took four days. Dean kept a mental count in his head; four days. On the evening of day two, Sam had started getting the shakes, and Dean found out that he'd not done the half and half and half, but that he'd just stopped taking the pills altogether at suppertime. He'd made Sam drink a lot of water, and held his head while he puked in the toilet, and then, pressed against the cold, tile wall, pulled Sam to him, between his legs, petting Sam all over. Sam had been sweaty and hot, his hair sticking to his face, cotton shirt sticking to his neck and arms, heat banking off him everywhere. Dean had been two seconds away from banging on the door to get them to take Sam to the infirmary. Then Sam had burped, right in Dean's face, a horrible, vomit burp that smelled like medicine. And then he sagged against Dean like a wet rag, all wrung out, soaking with sweat, but relaxed.

"Fuck," said Sam, muffled against Dean's chest. "Fuck."

Fuck was right. Dean had to consider whether to get Sam to take his pills in the morning, and keep tapering off, or whether he should just keep going cold turkey. If Sam throwing up was the worst it could get, then they would be okay. Otherwise, Sam would really end up in the infirmary which, as Dean recalled, wasn't really equipped for more than sprains or splinters. And there would be doctors, standing over him, evaluating him and testing him. They'd find out about the meds.

"Why'd you do that, Sam?" He stroked Sam's neck to show he wasn't mad.

"I had to hurry," said Sam, simply. "I didn't want you to leave without me."

This wrenched at Dean's heart, but he couldn't let Sam know. "I won't go anywhere without you, you get me?" He bent to kiss the top of Sam's damp head, tasting hair and sweat and medicine. "Ever."

Sam pushed into Dean's body, wrapping his arms around Dean's waist, seeming to feel at home between his legs, even with the floor being awfully cold and the bathroom smelling like vomit. There was some puke on the floor too, he'd need to clean that up. But first, Sam.

"Bath?" he asked.

"Uh-huh," said Sam. Of course he wouldn't say no, but even if it was late, and the lights were going to go out soon, he was all gunked up with sweat, and who was Dean to leave him like that if he could help it?

He got them to their feet. Sam was a little shaky, but cooler under Dean's hand when he ran it along Sam's forehead, brushing the sticky hair aside. "But brush your teeth first, I ain't kissing you with vomit teeth."

This only made Sam smile, tired but smiling. Getting to trust Dean again. Reaching for the washcloth, which only gave him an excuse to lean into Dean.

Dean pulled Sam's face in his hands and gave him a small kiss anyway.

*

It took two more days for Sam to stop sweating and feeling like he was shaking himself apart from the inside, but that was okay. They were off the meds, finally.

*

The sound of the dryers churned loud in Dean's ears, and there was something clunking in one of the washers that was starting to give him a headache. The heat didn't help either. Outside, it had stopped raining for once and the sun was coming in through the windows like it was the first day of summer, and if there was an a/c somewhere in the hospital, it had stopped working. He was sweating huge circles under his armpits, and so was Sam.

But he kept folding towels and tried not to take too many water breaks because Neland was marching around like a diva, waving his hands, using the clipboard as a baton. And he was yelling at Randy, which was fine with Dean, because if anyone needed yelling at, it was Randy. Sam had told him about how Neland was pretty sure most of the guys were faking it so they could have cushy little lives while Neland had to work hard. It had been fun to laugh about it under the covers with Sam, but being in the same room with Neland in a _mood_ was not.

Neland came over to them, clipboard in one fist and Randy's shirt, still on Randy, in the other. He shoved Randy at them like he was their fault, his and Sam's. Randy stumbled, his little mouth screwing up for a good rant. Dean watched Neland take a very deep breath, like he was maintaining control with his very last nerve and that wasn't going to last him very long.

"Randy says," said Neland, enunciating each word with a click as though he were biting through tin foil. "Randy says he's pretty sure that manning the phone is giving him cysts on his brain. I told him it wasn't ever going to do that and then he started to cry."

Dean tried not to smile, and felt Sam beside him trying to do the same.

"I need one of you to watch the phone while the orderly is on his supper break," said Neland, "because I can't hear it over the fucking racket."

Neland took his job very seriously, that was clear. If the phone rang, and Neland wasn't nearby, and if there was an emergency where Neland might turn out to be important, then he needed to _get_ that call. Beside him, Sam dipped his head and sniggered into his hand, and hopefully Neland wouldn't see it. Neland wasn't a bad guy, just frustrated in his dreams of, apparently, being a maitre de of a laundry room at a swank hotel somewhere. 

"Look," said Neland when neither he nor Sam raised their hand to volunteer. "Just ten minutes each, you can rotate out having to be with Randy, okay?"

Randy looked at Sam with swimmy, hopeful eyes. There was no way Dean wanted Sam to be stuck with Randy at all, let alone for ten minutes, nor did he want the job himself. They weren't getting paid, so what did Neland expect them to do?

He crossed his arms over his chest, and his expression must have said something like _so what,_ because Neland glared at Randy and gave him a small shake. Randy, although he was quivering like a scared rabbit, was smiling with all the attention. Dean wanted to smack him.

"I can get you treats," said Neland.

"What kind of treats?" asked Dean. It was kind of funny, Neland being in this position, taking all this time, when all the way across the room the phone could be ringing _right now_ and no one was there to answer it. At the same time he wondered what kind of treats Neland was talking about and where said treats had been all this time.

"Iced brownie or ice cream. Chocolate or vanilla, your pick."

Dean felt Sam move against him on the words _ice cream_ , and actually got stabbed in the side at the word _chocolate_ , so Dean knew the answer.

"Ice cream," he said, tipping up his chin. "Piles of it. And chocolate. All chocolate."

"Fine," said Neland, then he stuck his thumb back in the direction of the phone. "Sam, you go. And here."

He shoved Randy at Dean, and walked off with his clipboard, taking Sam with him to show him the phone. He even mimed how to pick it up and talk into it, and Sam nodded, paying close attention. Then Neland left Sam there and made his circuit, his very important circuit, of the laundry room.

Randy smiled at Dean, his mouth wet, and it wasn't that Randy smelled, he just looked like he did. Dean wanted to back up, but he didn't. He jerked his chin at Randy to say _hello_ , and turned back to folding towels. He looked over to check on Sam, who was standing by the phone with a funny little smile on his face. And it was funny, Sam, so tall, standing guard over the phone that barely came to his chest. He smiled at Dean, all the way across the laundry room, looking as confident as anything with his new task.

Randy was right at his elbow, talking, distracting him from Sam. "Dr. Logan says that Sam is never going to try and take my pants down, you know."

"Oh, yeah?" asked Dean. He thought about Sam and the feeling that had come over him when Sam's mouth had covered his cock, sucking, all that moisture and heat, and his stomach shivered. He had what Randy wanted; he had more than Randy would ever have. He had Sam. Even though, yeah--damnit.

"I might want him to, I might really want him to," Randy added, practically panting with it. "But he's not going to." He poked at the towel Dean was now folding, messing it up so that Dean had to start all over again. "No matter how much I want him to, even if I want it really, really bad."

"Cold day in hell, Randy," said Dean. He looked over at Sam and shook his head, knowing that Sam understood what Randy was yammering about. He didn't quite have the heart, or the guts, to be frank, to explain to Randy just exactly _who_ Sam was doing that to. His stomach did a pleasant roll as he thought of this, and if he was flushed, well, the heat of the laundry room was there to explain it.

"I mean, he's got such big hands, and--"

Dean took the liberty of giving Randy a good jab with an elbow to the ribs. "Just fold, Randy, 'cause we're not talking about it anymore."

"Oh," said Randy. He looked up at Dean, eyes going a little wide as if suddenly realizing who he was with. "Okay." Randy started folding, and it was as easy as that. Randy just wanted to someone to boss him around, was all. Well, he was in the right place. Dean could boss him around all day.

*

After ten minutes, they changed places, with Sam and Randy folding towels, and Dean standing by the phone. It was ridiculous, really, because Dean realized he couldn't remember the phone ever ringing in the laundry room. Okay, maybe it had once or twice, but Neland had heard it then just fine. It must make him feel important having someone on the phones, like they were a call center, and the hub of everything that mattered. Which might be true, if the hospital supplied all the clean towels for every hotel in Peoria. Pretty important stuff.

Dean knew he was distracting himself from his real worry, his eyes on Sam's dark head as he bent over his quota of towels, Randy, of all people, at his side. Randy wasn't touching Sam, or standing too close, but he was jabbering away, as though Sam were his oldest friend, his closest confidant. Dean could see that he was waving his hands about, telling some riveting story, and it took Dean a minute, but he realized that Randy was flirting with Sam. Actually putting himself out there to be charming and witty, so that Sam would like him enough so that Randy might actually get some pants-down action later.

When Sam looked over at Dean to roll his eyes, exaggerated, Dean knew he was alright, and it was okay not to worry for a bit. Dean could just relax and hang out by the phone, so he did. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. He let his eyes roam over the laundry room, seeing details he'd never noticed before, how worn the floor was, and how the dust from the dryers had built up in the corners of the windows. How the edges of the fake wood folding tables had been patched with clear tape. How the wire baskets that the patients used to cart wet towels from washer to dryer wobbled. This was Neland's little fiefdom, alight, but Dean didn't envy him, not one bit.

Neland came over to wash his hands at the sink near Dean and the open doorway. Dean stood with his back to the door, letting the cool hallway air wash over him.

"Any calls?" asked Neland as he dried his hands on a clean towel.

"Nope," said Dean. Neland knew this, obviously, or Dean would have called him over.

Then Neland reached beneath the sink for a little bottle of lotion, which he put on his hands, twisting them over and over like a fussy nun. When he was finished, he put the bottle back and marched off, clipboard in hand, but Dean found himself looking at the bottle.

It was the plain, unscented, generic lotion that was always below the sink. And it took Dean a minute to realize what he was thinking, or that he'd come to this decision long before he'd been standing by the phone. Him and Sam, it was practically a done deal. Sam had stopped taking his pills, they both were clean, and when he left the hospital, Sam was going with him. Dean didn't even question that. But there were little pockets of darkness when Sam looked at him, memories of something he'd asked for, and maybe he'd forgotten he'd asked for it, but it might make the difference when it actually came time. Sam needed complete confidence so he wouldn't hesitate when it came time to step out with Dean under a very big sky. And Dean needed to give it to him.

Dean moved away from the phone to wash his hands. Keeping it casual, he dried his hands on the towel and then bent under the sink to grab the bottle. The only place to put it was beneath the waistband of his underwear, and luckily it wasn't a big bottle, or the elastic wouldn't have held it and his shirt wouldn't have covered the bulge.

When he turned around, Neland was there, glowering.

"What are you doing? Did the phone ring?"

"Just washing my hands, boss," Dean said, showing Neland his clean palms.

Just then, Neland's eyes snapped to a point over Dean's shoulders at the orderly who'd just come in, bringing the crisp smell of the corridor into the warm fug of the laundry room.

"Jesus, Edgerton," said Neland, his voice cracking with importance. "Do you think this place runs itself?"

Dean moved away, back to the folding tables where Sam and Randy were going at it, a race, apparently, to see who could fold more towels. He stood there a moment, watching. Trust Sam to be nice like that, making friends with a loser, just because. Just like he'd been his whole life, like his old self. Which meant that Sam was ready. Dean couldn't put it off any longer, them making a break for it. But first, Sam. Dean needed to give Sam what Sam wanted, and it was all for Sam and not a delay, no, not at all.

He came up behind Sam and tapped him gently on the shoulder. Sam turned, bangs plastered against his forehead with sweat, but smiling, his eyes lighting up as he saw Dean.

Between them, Randy looked at both of them, pouting, looking like he was ready to start stomping his feet and holding his breath, and all because he didn't have Sam's full and undivided attention.

Dean couldn't help it. He looked down at Randy and moved a little closer to Sam, marking his territory without laying a finger on Sam. It was stupid, he had more than this stupid pathetic inmate in a state-run mental institution, in comparison he had everything. He had a life waiting for him, he had Sam. But, still. It needed being said. And Dean got to say it. Just this once.

"Jealous much?" he asked. Smirking. Sam shook his head, trying not to smile because he, of course, disapproved of this kind of thing, Sam-I-Am, who was kind to all, the meek and the small, and didn't like meanness, no, not at all.

Randy's pout grew huge, but the chime for supper rang and Neland came to take Randy away, and Dean didn't have to deal with it. Neither did Sam.

As they got in line in the nicely cool hallway, Randy was in line ahead of them, talking to another patient like his fit over Sam had never been. Sam bumped his forehead against Dean's shoulder as they waited for the line to get moving.

"You're mean," he said. "Mean."

"I know," said Dean. "But that's how you like me."

The line started moving, and a cool breeze wafted over them as they moved away from the laundry room.

"Chocolate ice cream," said Sam. And Dean knew he didn't really mind about Randy, which was good because Randy was just a freak.

"Yeah," said Dean. He checked the bottle of lotion beneath his waistband, touching the side of it with his fingers, and took a deep breath. It was going to be okay. All of it.

*

The chocolate ice cream came after Sam and Dean were mostly finished with their chicken a la king. At least that's what Sam thought it was supposed to be, though it tasted mostly like flour; the chunks of celery were underdone and the noodles were soggy. He was just drinking his milk when he saw Neland come in through the main door, going straight for the silver doors that led to the back of the serving area. He looked at Dean, and Dean looked at him, and smiled. Sam had been nervous that maybe Neland was going to forget or pretend he'd never promised them ice cream, but it looked like that wasn't the case.

A second later, Neland came out, followed by one of the kitchen workers, who carried a tray with two huge bowls on it. Neland held his head up high because so many eyes were on him, the eyes of patients who could focus anyway, and marched towards their table, important and in charge. When he arrived at their table, he waved at the kitchen worker, who placed the two bowls on the table. Neland pointed at them with a flourish.

"Piles of chocolate ice cream," said Neland, loudly. "As promised."

Dean looked at the bowls, and Sam realized that Dean had also been worried that Neland might have decided to back out. But Dean played it cool. He lifted his head and nodded at Neland like they were old pals, with an understanding going way back.

"Thanks, boss" he said. "Any more favors you need, you just ask, okay?"

This actually made Neland smile. "Yeah, right." Because of course, an orderly had the power to say _where_ , and _when_ , and _how_ , and a patient in a mental institution had no rights at all. They were getting ice cream because Neland wanted them to, and for no other reason. Sam couldn't figure out how one smile could tell him all of this, but it did. As he looked at Dean, he knew that Dean had come to the same conclusion. Still, there were two huge bowls of ice cream, which would certainly take away the sting of being reminded of their place.

Neland went away, taking all the pairs of eyes with him, and that didn't bother Sam, not one bit. He handed Dean a spoon, and took the other one for himself. Then he pushed the bowl that had more ice cream towards Dean, and grabbed the other bowl that had less.

"Sam," said Dean, and Sam knew what that meant; Dean had meant for it to go the other way.

"I shouldn't always get more," Sam said. He took a big spoonful of ice cream that was just getting soft around the edges. It was fake ice cream, of course, in a place like this, it would be what they had, that's all. Still. It was creamy and sweet and cold and slid down his throat like the real thing. "Besides you did the wheeling and dealing. So eat. And shut up."

"Okay," said Dean, laughing under his breath. He pulled his bowl close to him and circled his arm around it as though protecting it from all comers. He put a huge spoonful of ice cream in his mouth and groaned around it, his eyes half closing. "Oh, man. This was a long time coming."

Sam licked his fingers, and then licked the curve of the spoon, which was cool against his tongue. He couldn't agree more.

*

As they brushed their teeth, Dean was unaccountably nervous. He'd done this before to girls to make them howl, but he'd never had it done _to_ him, and he felt pretty sure that that's the way it had to go. There were only so many things he could do and feel okay about once he was able to walk away from everything that had happened. Getting pleasure out of fucking his little brother was not one of them, so it had to be the other way around.

He didn't think that Sam would mind, really, and once they got going, their bodies would know what to do, he felt pretty sure of that. What was really knocking at him was the way his body wanted it, he was half hard already, his stomach tight, anticipation building along the back of his neck as he watched Sam wash his face. Brush his teeth. Put on his p.j.'s. Everything. Randy would have been howling in indignation, had he been there. Watching them. He'd have known what was coming. Like Dean knew, even if Sam didn't. And why the hell was he thinking about Randy?

Dean spit into the sink and got into his p.j.'s; he'd stuck the lotion under the pillow when they'd first come into the room to get rid of their pills, and couldn't understand, as he climbed into bed with Sam, why he felt like a 16-year old on his first date. All fluttery and sweaty, when this was okay, this was what Sam wanted, and what Dean was prepared to give him.

At least he thought this was what Sam wanted. What if he didn't anymore?

The chime in the hall had sounded and now the lights went out. Dean lay back on the pillow and took a breath, pulling Sam into his arms, in the dark. Getting a mouthful of hair. He listened to Sam sigh, felt his muscles relax, and that was a good thing, Sam relaxed, feeling safe to be where he was. If Sam didn't want this, then maybe Dean would feel foolish, but Sam would feel wanted. And that was what mattered.

"Hey, Sam," he said, almost whispering. His heart was smacking against his ribs.

"Yeah?"

"So remember when we were talking about making the girls howl?"

"Uh-huh." Sam's body stiffened a little alongside him. Listening now.

"Remember how you wanted to do that? You and me? You still wanna?"

Sam made a funny grunt in his throat, like someone had punched him, but before Dean had time to worry that maybe Sam was having a seizure or something, Sam _moved_. He was on top of Dean, pressing down on him, cupping his face, planting kisses everywhere he could reach. Dean's arms came up and circled Sam, pulling Sam to him.

Sam still hadn't said anything, so Dean said, "I take that as a _yes_?"

"Uh-huh." Funny, articulate Sammy, lost for words. For once.

"But you gotta--" Dean stopped to reach back under his pillow for the lotion. He could feel Sam's eyes on him, watching, glinting in the half-dark. He put the lotion in the curve of Sam's hand, felt the plastic next to his face, and the heat of Sam's fingers as he pulled his hand away to see what Dean had given him. " _You_ get to, you see? And I'll be under, on the bottom."

Dean started to turn over, to put his face in the pillow so that Sam would understand what he meant without him having to explain it any further. He was a guy, and guys didn't, well, he didn't, except now he was going to let Sam--and his throat felt too tight almost even to breathe. This was stupid, he felt stupid and foolish, even if it was Sam, only Sam who--

Sam stopped him with a hand, curving around Dean's neck, holding him still with his big hands. But gently. And warm.

"You ever do this before?" asked Sam.

This question made sense, because of course Sam had never done anything like this, not with the blanks in his memory. But then again, maybe he remembered some of it, maybe there were images or echoes through his body that would show him how to do it. So why was he asking?

"Uh," said Dean. "To, but not--not from." His neck felt hot under Sam's hand and he wanted to squirm. Big, bad, rough and tough Dean Winchester, lying in bed in his loony bin pajamas that might as well have bats and belfries on them as be plain white cotton. With his brother on top of him, on a narrow bed with thin sheets and not enough pillow. Trying to find a way to explain Tab A and Slot B sex to someone who couldn't remember beyond four weeks ago and wouldn't that be a story for the boys back home.

Only there weren't any boys back home. There was only Sam. "I, uh, never like this." It was all he could manage.

Sam shifted, tipping his head close enough so that Dean could feel the brush of Sam's eyelashes on his cheeks, against his nose, as Sam kissed him, gently, there and there and _there_. Feather whispers that made the skin on Dean's neck tighten. And then Sam kissed him under his ear, where the skin was soft and waiting. Wanting.

"Oh," said Sam, his voice going low as the word turned into a sigh. "Then I'm your first."

"I guess so," said Dean, wishing he could think of something better than that. So he swallowed, lips numb. "You're the only one. There's never been anybody else."

More kisses, and Dean realized that Sam's eyes were wet, and that his hands on Dean's face quivered, so Dean kissed him back, his arms snaking around Sam's neck, a little hard, so the full of Sam's weight was on him. Dense thighs sank against his, heat building up, and a little friction too, that was nice. He shifted his hips to get some more of that and the tenseness in his neck started to slip away.

And then slip away some more, when Sam took his hands down and tugged at the hem of Dean's pajama top, pulling upwards, rough, not waiting, so Dean had to lift his arms and let Sam pull. Something ripped as Sam made the final tug, but he was tossing the top aside where it landed somewhere in the dark as Sam planted kisses on Dean's chest, licking, his tongue warm. Dean found himself arching into Sam's mouth. Suddenly the bed was just the right size, and they both had too many clothes on.

"Here," he said. "You too."

He tried to tug on Sam's pajama top, but Sam was in charge now and sat up all the way in the bed, his heat suddenly gone from Dean's skin. He took off his top and then stood up to take off his pajama bottoms and boxers, a dark outline now, beside the bed. He only had time to blink before Sam was on the bed again, his knees pressing against Dean's leg, his hands curling around the waistband of Dean's pajamas, stretching the elastic of his boxers.

"Ready?"

"Uh," was all Dean could say, because he knew what Sam was going to do. His stomach dipped low, muscles clenching, and then Sam did it. One, hard jerk of his hands and Dean's pajamas were halfway down his thighs, his rock hard cock was hot against his stomach, and why did that feel so good, the feeling of his legs being tangled and trapped, his thighs bare. Because then Sam dipped down and licked the length of Dean's cock with his tongue while he slowly, oh so slowly pulled Dean's pajama bottoms all the way down. One final tug and they were off Dean's feet, to disappear into the darkness.

Then Sam was on him again, the full length of him, skin to skin, warm and shifting, lining up his hips with Dean's, bringing his knee up between Dean's legs to push just a little bit. His pubic hair scratched along Dean's thigh, making Dean's skin prickle and shiver. Sam's hands cupped Dean's face, and he licked Dean's mouth, tasting just a little bit like Dean and a whole lot like Sam. Warm and salty, and Dean pushed into the kiss, liking the taste, the smell of Sam's skin, the feel of Sam's hair brushing against his cheek.

"So, okay," said Sam. He was reaching in the dark for the lotion, and Dean tightened up because he suddenly didn't want to have to explain the mechanics of this to Sam. It wasn't that he couldn't, but if he had to, it would just make it too real, and that would jerk them out of this slice of time that they had between them, where the dark room in a mental hospital was theirs, and the outside world mattered not at all.

Sam had the bottle of lotion in his hand; Dean could feel the coolness of the moisture on Sam's hand as he moved it down the length of Dean's body. He curled his other arm under Dean's shoulder, pulling him close. Dean had to swallow and swallow again, because his breath was going to come out in a high whistle if he had to explain that he did not want to be doing this face to face, he couldn't do it and look at Sam, look into his eyes, because the big fat lie he'd been telling all this while that this was something to help Sam would suddenly be something that could hurt Sam. And then none of it would make any difference because nothing was worth that.

"Hey, now," said Sam. He stroked Dean's hip for a second, as one of his long leg moved over Dean's. Dean heard the pop of the lid, and his heart started to jackhammer, and his mouth came open as he tried to get some air. He was hot all over, too hot, and sweating, slick against Sam. And in a second Sam was going to figure out that something was not right.

Sam dipped his hand between Dean's legs, fingers cool with the lotion, stroking the flesh where Dean's balls were hard and tucked up against him. The cool made him shiver, but Sam kept stroking and petting, and Dean had to finally tuck his face into Sam's shoulder, smelling Sam's sweat, his mouth against skin, the pound of Sam's heart coming up. And that was better, Sam was nervous too. Only a little, though, his hand between Dean's legs was confident and sure, stroking over and over, and going a little lower each time.

"Hey," said Sam, whispered kisses against Dean's forehead. "When we're ready, you can turn over, okay? I just want this now, you and me, like this."

Dean whooshed out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and tried to relax. He tucked his arm that wasn't trapped beneath Sam up against his chest to give Sam some room and then he nodded. Saying _okay, okay_ was simply beyond him, he'd had no idea how hard it would be to let go like this and just give it up, simply because someone asked you to, and you trusted them enough to say yes. His eyes felt hot. He opened his mouth, reaching out his tongue to taste Sam, sucking a little with his mouth, a little dizzy, blinking, letting his mouth relax as Sam got some more lotion and kept stroking.

The lotion got a little warmer, but it still felt slick, and smooth, and when Sam's fingers dipped low enough to trace up along the line between Dean's legs, and to finally dip in between Dean's buttocks to circle around his asshole, Dean's whole body jerked, and he had to grip at Sam, fingers digging into Sam's ribs.

"Easy, okay? Easy. I'm not going to hurt you." Sam paused to kiss the top of Dean's head, and Dean closed his eyes. If anyone could be gentle with this scary thing, it was Sam. Sam who loved him. Dean swallowed and nodded against Sam's chest. _Okay, okay_.

Sam's fingers kept moving, circling around and around, softly pushing into Dean's asshole, and circling back out, cool and slick, and when the shivers started to make Dean's skin warm, Sam pushed inside Dean's body, just a little, and then pulled out. He paused to get some more lotion, and then circled again, and push in, and Dean realized he was moving, pushing his legs apart to give Sam more room. Pushing back into Sam's hand as Sam pushed a finger in, blunt, the nail feeling sharp against tender skin. Dean groaned with the feeling of it, and the thought of it, what it was. Not so bad, oh God, definitely not so bad.

"Yeah, now, that's it," said Sam, husky and low, rumbling from his chest.

More lotion, Dean's spine tingled with the snap of the lid on the bottle of lotion, and shivered when Sam's hand was on him again. Circling low, pushing his legs apart with the width of Sam's palm as it cupped Dean's balls, and then Sam was pushing in two fingers, so gently and slow that Dean grit his teeth and pushed back, wanting it a little bit more, a little bit more of _that_. Sam obliged him, giving his fingers a little shove, stronger than a push, but gentle still. Careful. Sam's fingers were warm inside of him, and as the muscles around the fingers pushed and flexed, something warm spread out from his stomach, and then Sam spread his fingers apart, like he knew what the fuck he was doing and even if he didn't, it felt perfect. Just like it should and no wonder the girls howled.

But it was beyond him to say anything like this, his brain couldn't connect with his mouth to articulate any of it. He gripped Sam's rib muscles with his hand, and made a sound low in his throat, barely able to manage that much. The heat was building up between their skins, ripples of pleasure pushing out as the heat soaked in, and sweat streaked along his neck.

Sam's hand was slick against Dean's thigh as he pulled his fingers out, and then he did something down there, and pushed back in, three fingers, almost hard, but it felt good and solid, still careful, and then Sam twisted his fingers to the side, reaching in, reaching a spot that Dean had heard about, yeah, what guy hadn't, and he made a sound that came out a surprised yip, and he felt Sam make a satisfied sound, like a sigh, knew that Sam was smiling. Dean tried to say something, wanted to say something, but could only pet Sam's chest, reach up for his throat, patting with the tips of his fingers. He swallowed hard, and did his best.

"Go," he said. Or at least he meant to say _go_ , it came out a grunt instead.

"Yeah," said Sam. He pulled Dean to him till Dean was resting on his side, his back pressed against Sam's chest, and moved his hand to keep pushing his fingers in and pulling them out, over and over, clicking on that one spot each and every time, making Dean shiver down to his toes as he pressed down and down, wanting it harder. He wanted it so much harder, his toes were curling with wanting it.

Then Sam pulled out and his hands were on Dean's shoulders, sticky with lotion, hot with being inside Dean. Dean got one glimpse of Sam's face, from the light from the high window, Sam's hair in his eyes, eyes glinting, mouth open, pleasure waiting, tucking in close for a fast kiss that made the inside of Dean's mouth jump. Sam pulled back, and with a little smile, he pushed Dean down, face down into the pillow and the mattress, and from somewhere far off, Dean heard the click of the lotion bottle being opened and closed. A second later and Sam was on top of him, thighs between Dean's thighs, warm, the hair on Sam's legs tangling with his own, Sam's cock, hard, dipping down to push a little, along the length of Dean's thighs and up, a heavy, warm weight between Dean's buttocks.

Sam's hand stroked in long lines across Dean's hips and up and down his spine, pushing up Dean's arms so he could rest his head on them, gentling some of the shiver out of his muscles. Then Dean felt Sam bend close, planting small kisses on his ribs, soft enough, dandelion wishes, Sam's mouth, eyelashes flickering along Dean's spine. He knew Sam was kneeling now, planting those kisses that felt warm, like being worshipped and Dean knew he'd never felt like that, before, with anyone else. Only with Sam, who could have anything he wanted from Dean, just by asking for it, was taking his time. For Dean. Hands long and warm, kisses soft, hair falling forward to brush the back of Dean's neck. Slow and sweet and full of love.

Dean was cold, wanted Sam on him, full on him, and _in_ him, and he tried to say this, wondering why he'd ever been scared of this, wanting, Sam all over, hands and heartbeat and skin and warm. And Sam. Anywhere. _Everywhere_.

Sam lay down on top of him, finally, half to the side, where he could move between Dean's legs, still with his weight bearing down, as if he knew how Dean liked it, and Dean felt Sam's fingers, there up high, pushing in a little, making way. And then Sam settled back, his weight shifting, the round, hot head of his cock pressing into Dean's body a little and Dean rose up. He couldn't help it, but Sam petted him, and waited a little moment, breathing nice and slow, until Dean felt his neck relax and he dipped his head down into the pillow. Wanting to nod or say something about how he was ready, oh, so very ready.

With a small kiss to the top of his spine, Sam shifted down, and pushed, and paused, his cock filling Dean and pressing him open, Sam's cockhead a flair of pressure along his insides. His stomach muscles shivering and Sam's skin hot and slick against his backside. He moved a little, pressing, so that Sam would know it was okay, and he was okay, though his hands had a grip on the pillow tight enough to tear, his jaw tight as Sam pushed, and his cock was warm, pressing in, slipping a little, the lotion slick and warm now as Sam pushed. Dean could feel the muscles in Sam's thighs tight, holding himself back, Sam wanting to be gentle like he had promised, but it was going to take forever if they kept like this, and Dean knew he couldn't wait. Didn't want to. So he lifted his hips and tightened his knees and pushed back hard, surprising himself, making a sudden, high sound because it was so tight it hurt, just for a second, like he was being ripped open.

Sam made a sound, low, like dismay. "Dean," he said, his hands on Dean's hips. "Dean."

It felt sharp and not nice, like someone was slicing him from the inside out, but his body told him there was something else, something beyond that pain, so he shifted back. "Up," he said, knowing what he meant, hoping Sam would because he couldn't manage more than that without cluing Sam in to how much this fucking hurt. And then Sam would stop, and Dean didn't want that. " _Up_ ," he said again.

Sam's fingers curled around Dean's hips and tugged, and then tugged again, Sam's strong hands pulling Dean to him, so Dean was on his hands and knees. As the angle changed and Sam's cock thrust deep inside of him, all at once the nasty, slicing feeling faded into something deeper, smooth, the right angle now, and Dean groaned and pressed back. That was it, that was it. Right. _There_.

Sam was all the way in him fully sheathed now, tight and hard, and Dean felt full, felt the pulsing warmth of Sam's cock, from the inside. He could feel the hard planes of Sam's stomach along his own backside, the warmth of his groin, and sweat, Sam was sweating, soaking heat into Dean's skin.

"Dean?" asked Sam.

"Push." It came out like he was growling, and he got it now, so much of it, what the girls liked and why. "Push, _damnit_."

Sam pushed, his hands gripping Dean's hips, with his slick heavy cock, that felt tight and mean inside of him, Sam's pubic hair scratching the backs of Dean's thighs, he'd not known it felt like that, but he wanted it. Sam pulled out and Dean shifted back into it, wanting Sam to slam back in. Sam did, picking up the rhythm, pushing his cock in and pulling out, fingers tight, almost too tight, pressing into bone, leaving bruises, but that was good, he wanted that weight, that force that would keep him from spinning right off the bed. Sam leaned into him, thighs flexing, pumping, like a heartbeat, pushing inside of him now, and Dean felt his stomach start to curl up, and he wanted Sam, wanted him closer. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he opened them, and reached back.

"Sam," he said, thready, gasping. "Sam."

Sam leaned close, moving his hips, sliding his cock in and out of Dean, his damp chest along Dean's back, mouth hot on Dean's shoulder.

"Yeah?"

Dean couldn't even speak, but he wanted Sam's hands on him, his cock was like an iron band against his own belly, and the muscles in his stomach were clenching and sparks were building up in his brain, and he wanted Sam there for that, he wanted Sam's hands. So he reached back and pulled Sam to him, circling Sam's fingers around his cock with his own, and it was slippery, but Sam shifted his weight, holding on, pumping Dean's cock up and down, pumping into Dean's ass at an angle, and then, he sank in hard and pressed down, his chest a long, hot line along Dean's back.

Dean felt Sam's teeth, on the back of his neck. Closing in, biting, sharp, almost enough to break the skin, and Dean felt it. Deep inside his gut, like a scream that broke forth as he came in Sam's hand, his hips jerking, mindless. And Sam, inside him, pumping hard, and pulsing, Dean could feel Sam come inside of him, gushing, heat spreading as Sam's cock pulsed inside of him. Streaking heat deep into him, marking him. Making him Sam's. Slowing as Sam's body relaxed, spent. Dean's arms gave out, and he collapsed face down, sweaty on the pillow, Sam a huge, hot weight all over him. There was a small popping sound as Sam's cock slipped out of him, still half hard, and wet, his seed spilling down over Dean's thighs.

And then Sam flopped backwards onto the mattress, letting in a stream of cool air along Dean's back, and his neck, still throbbing from Sam's bite. Sam let out a gasping breath, arms wide, trying to get cool, even as Dean thought he could hear Sam's heart pounding. Dean leaned back and spread out himself, breathing, rolling over to let his chest cool and his legs stop trembling. The sheets were all rucked beneath them, damp in spots, the air smelling of salt and spent sex, but the cool of the room felt good, and this had been good. All of it. If Sam remembered anything, Dean wanted him to remember this. Feeling good like this.

"So yeah," said Dean, after taking a breath. "About that."

Sam let out a whoosh of air that Dean realized was a laugh.

"You howled," said Sam, gasping.

"Did _not_."

"Yeah you did. You so did."

"Did not."

"Just like a girl, yeah."

Sam sounded so pleased with himself that Dean wasn't sure whether he wanted to feel irritated or not. "I'm _not_ a girl," he said, finally settling on that.

Then Sam shifted on the bed, all one hot line against Dean's side, their sweat mixing to slip down between them, lacing into the sheets. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean knew that whoever did the sheets would know exactly what had gone on. But with Sam's hand flat on his chest, moving up to touch his throat, with Sam's mouth on his jaw, moving higher to lick at the corner of his mouth that Sam seemed obsessed with, well, he just couldn't make himself care about anything else.

"No," said Sam. Agreeing. "You're not a girl." He moved back on top of Dean, hot now, and heavy and sweaty, tangling his legs with Dean and kissing him, lacing his tongue in Dean's mouth with a swirl and salt, making Dean's lips tingle, spreading sparks down the back of his throat. Dean didn't want to push Sam off. Not when Sam could use his tongue like that.

"You're definitely no girl," said Sam, taking a breath. "You're my Dean, though. _Mine_."

Dean smiled into Sam's mouth, the inside of his lips flickering with the sweep of Sam's mouth, the taste of him. His stomach jumping, because he was feeling the blood rush to his cock and there might be other interesting things Sam might want to do with that mouth. As for everything else, the plan, the goddamn plan to escape, well, that would just have to wait. He was making Sam feel good, feel strong, and yeah, the strength in Sam's hands as they pushed Dean back into the pillow, that felt good too. Everything else would just have to wait.

*

When Sam whispered to Dean as they stood in line, the gleam beneath the line of Dean's eyelashes promised kisses later. When his hands accidentally brushed against Dean's when they were folding towels, the skin on the back of Dean's hand would tighten, letting Sam know that Dean would want more of that later. When they ate their supper, and Dean licked his lips, he would pretend not to notice that Sam was watching him. Eyes idle, looking across the dining hall, as if Sam wasn't right there, his knee pressed against Sam's knee.

And just when Sam was sure that Dean had forgotten Sam was even there, his eyes would light on Sam, and narrow like he was trying not to smile. Then his eyes would glint and his mouth would quirk up, and he would look away, a flush on his cheeks that told Sam that Dean was only teasing. Because he could and because, Sam knew, it was almost too much for Dean. He couldn't say the words, and while he'd obviously enjoyed what they did in the dark, the light of day was just too bright. That was just Dean's way.

So Sam tipped his head and smiled, looking away to give Dean some space, some privacy. An oxymoron, really, in the dining hall, where all the tables were full of mental patients, and the spaces in between monitored by orderlies, all of whom valued their jobs. He caught Dean's eyes and blinked, slow, looking up at Dean through his lashes. Flirting, just a little bit. Watching Dean smile, just a little bit, flirting right back. _That_ was the way it was supposed to be. Just like this. _Just_ like this.

 

**Chapter 21**

They were pulled out of art therapy just as Miss Windle had finished standing in front of the class to tell them to draw how they felt. Randy had been at the table next to theirs, all by himself, and had raised his hand right away. If felt a little sad to Sam that no one wanted to share a table with Randy, but he didn't say anything to Dean, because Dean would say that Randy had made his own bed and now he had to lie in it.

When Miss Windle called on Randy, he complained that he didn't know how he felt, and Sam was distracted from Miss Windle's answer by Dean's snickering and by the door opening. An orderly stood there and asked for Sam and Dean. At Miss Windle's nod, they went with the orderly down the hall. Sam didn't recognize the orderly, but then, sometimes shifts changed, and anyway, he didn't care who it was, he was with Dean.

He didn't touch Dean though he wanted to because it was enough to be walking shoulder to shoulder, down the hall. That brought a memory, another one of those strange echoes, of how they'd done that a lot, before. Before, when Sam knew who he was. Him and Dean, walking together, along a road lined with tall golden grasses, with speckles of white seeds drifting in the air, warm and lazy and casual, with no particular place to go.

The orderly stopped in front of Dr. Logan's office and knocked, and Dr. Logan said "Come in," and the orderly opened the door and stepped back.

Dr. Logan was standing behind her desk, and was on the phone. "He's on his way?" she asked. Then she listened for a minute, said goodbye, and hung up.

"Well, Sam and Dean," she said, smiling at them. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tidy bun, and her glasses looked liked they'd recently been cleaned. The whole office was neater than Sam had ever seen it, with books in their proper places on the shelves, and the papers stacked in nice piles on the desk. There was something shiny about her, as well, and it wasn't just the sun coming in the windows. "Take a seat, gentlemen, and it will just take a minute, but we have company today."

They sat down in the unmatched chairs on the other side of her desk, and Sam took the one nearest to the window so he could get a bit of sunshine on his legs and arms. Dean took the one by the door, relaxing into the seat, head tipping back as he looked at Dr. Logan.

"Who's the company?" asked Dean.

"Someone who says he knows you," said Dr. Logan. She sighed, as if pleased with herself. "It's kind of exciting; actually, he says he knows who you are."

Sam looked over at Dean, who shrugged his shoulders and made a face at Sam, pulling his mouth downward. As Sam shrugged back, there was a knock at the door, and both he and Dean turned their heads to look. When Dr. Logan said _come in_ , the orderly on the other side of the door opened it and stepped aside to admit a man in a suit who was obviously not an orderly or a doctor or anyone connected with the hospital. The black suit he had on was just too nice, too crisp around the edges. He had sleek, dark skin and hard, dark eyes, and when those eyes focused on Sam, they smiled. But it wasn't a nice smile, it made Sam feel prickly inside. And maybe it was uncomfortable for Dean, too, because he sat straight up in his chair.

"Gentlemen," said Dr. Logan, "I would like you to meet Special Agent Victor Henriksen. He's with the FBI, and he's brought paperwork that might be able to tell you who you are."

"Oh," said Henriksen, "they _know_ who they are." His head made a side to side motion as he talked. "Sam and Dean Winchester, felons extraordinaire."

"Not felons, surely," said Dr. Logan, "but Winchester? Is that both their last names? Are they related?"

Those dark eyes shifted over to her, slicing through the air as they went. "I told you this on the phone, doctor, if you were paying attention," said Henriksen. "But you obviously weren't, so pay attention now. They don't have amnesia and they know exactly who they are."

The air snapped as Henriksen looked back over at them, first at Sam and then at Dean. Then he took a step towards Dean, who sat in his chair like he was glued there, hands gripping the edge of the seat, arms tense, little tremors moving up and down. Dean didn't look up at Henriksen, but his mouth and jaw moved as he swallowed. Maybe he was trying to keep his mouth shut so he wouldn't say the wrong thing, but then, Sam knew all about that, so he decided to help Dean out.

"I _don't_ know who I am," said Sam, looking right at Henriksen. "And I _don't_ remember you, either."

Henriksen didn't move, but his whole body was poised, leaning slightly forward. His mouth curved upwards but it wasn't a smile.

"But I remember _you_ ," said Henriksen. Now his voice smiled, slipping into it like it had been oiled. "I remember you, and if you say you don't remember me, then you're faking it."

"Oh, they're not faking it," said Dr. Logan. "They both have retrograde amnesia, and we're treating them for PTSD, with therapy and meds and--"

"Lady," said Henriksen, keeping his eyes on Sam. "They have been fooling you since day one, and if a whack or two on the head from some crazy scheme disoriented them, then from soon after. They've been eating your food and sleeping in your beds and using the money of the taxpayers of this blessed country of ours to take a little break in your oh-so-fine institution."

"No," said Dr. Logan. She sliced her hand through the air and then pointed at Sam and Dean. "Their symptoms are real. They were completely disoriented when they were brought in, soaked through like they'd been wandering hours in the rain, and a car was found running idle a mile away--"

"Oh, the car." Henriksen dismissed this with a shake of his head. "The damn _car_. Not at hand, not close by, otherwise they'd be in it and very far from here."

" _No_ ," said Dr. Logan again. "You obviously didn't read the files I sent you; otherwise, you could see what the paramedics said, and what the police reported. Dean was in a coma for a week, you can't fake that, not with all the tests."

"These boys know how to fake it in all kinds of ways you can't even begin to dream of, Dr. Logan," said Henriksen. "They've got you fooled, and you're so fooled you can't even see it."

Sam looked over at Dean who was so tightly wound up that there was sweat along the length of his neck, and Sam couldn't understand why. They had amnesia, and if part of their memories were coming back, it was because of the care they were getting in the hospital, not that they'd been lying. Well, maybe they'd been lying a little, but not like Henriksen was saying. What concerned Sam more was the idea that Dean had been in a coma. He knew what a coma was, remembered reading about them. He didn't like thinking of Dean going through that, being asleep but not asleep, alone in his head, with no one able to get through to him, and not able to get out.

Dean must have felt Sam looking, because he looked back at Sam, his eyes round, his face white, so white that his freckles stood out against his skin. Sam realized that Dean was scared and about two seconds away from freaking out. Maybe Dean did remember Henriksen, maybe just a little. Otherwise, why would he be so worked up? A visit to Dr. Logan was something they'd both done many times, plus the orderly was waiting outside the door, which meant that the conversation with Dr. Logan was expected to go smoothly. It was Henriksen who was making Dean this way. Sam looked up and let himself glare. Hopefully Dr. Logan would be able to convince Henriksen and he would go away and leave them in peace so they could get better.

"Agent Henriksen," said Dr. Logan. Some of the shininess was gone out of her voice. "If you'd read the files on Sam and Dean, you'd know--"

"And if you read the FBI files," said Henriksen, interrupting her. Looking as if he didn't give a damn about that. "Then _you'd_ know. You'd know they're wanted for murder, and bank robbery, and grave desecration, and kidnapping, and more murder, why, the list just goes on and on. I didn't even send you the report on the fine citizens we interviewed who insist that Sam and Dean saved them from a ghost or a black dog or a zombie. Can you believe that? A zombie? Not to mention the windego, those kids in Colorado wouldn't even talk about that, but there's more to that story. Only it's not worth my time, you see, because--"

"Well, we know about the zombies," said Dr. Logan. "And the vampires and so forth, we have the boys in therapy for--"

Sam watched Henriksen's eyebrows shoot right up his forehead. "Vampires, is it now. Well, that's a new one."

There was a little pause in the back and forth between Dr. Logan and Agent Henriksen, but the stillness in the room didn't erase the hard, stiff tension. Sam could see it, each of them had files, and neither one had wanted to read the other one's files. Each one of them thought they were right, and each one wanted to claim Sam and Dean as their territory. It was easy to see this, now that Sam could take a breath. He wanted to put his hands on Dean and pull him out of the office before Dean got even more upset, but that was not how things went in the loony bin. You had to be polite and wait your turn, you had to respect people who had titles or badges. Even if you didn't really respect or like them, you had to pretend you did.

"But anyway," said Henriksen, before Sam could think of something clever to say to get them out of that office, "it doesn't matter what the people say, it only matters what the evidence has left behind." He was looking at Dean, now, his chin tucked down like he was fond of Dean, though the angry sparkles in his eyes said he wasn't. "The evidence shows that these guys are violent, unpredictable killers--"

"Not Dean," said Dr. Logan. Sam thought she sounded shocked, because yes, while Sam knew he had a tendency to be unpredictable, Dean was always the well-behaved one. Henriksen hadn't read the files so he didn't know that. Dr. Logan was right to correct Henriksen. "Dean is gentle, Dean--"

"Lady," said Henriksen, his voice cutting through the air with a snap. "This one's a natural born killer, right here. He'd just as soon rip your heart out if you got in his way, and he could do it with his bare hands. He would and he has, especially if you hurt Sam. Hell, if you even only touched his Sam, he'd be on you so fast because Sam's the only thing he loves in this world and there's nothing he wouldn't do for his brother. Nothing."

Beside him, Dean boiled to a stand, grabbing for Henriksen, shoving him. "Shut up," he said, grinding his teeth together. "You just shut up, shut the _fuck_ up."

It was the wrong move. Sam knew that even before Henriksen snapped into action and twisted Dean into an arm lock and shoved him face first against the wall. Sam heard Dr. Logan gasp and realized that he'd stood up, his whole body quivering, focused, and his body was telling him things that his mind was completely shocked by. His feet wanted to move and his hands wanted to grab Henriksen and rip him off of Dean. They wanted to hurt Henriksen, in a way that was almost foreign because he wasn't violent like that, even though he used to be. Before Dean.

Henriksen tightened his grip on Dean, locking off part of his air as his arm moved around Dean's throat. Dean had his eyes closed, and his mouth was open, and he didn't move. Pressed against the wall, he couldn't move. Sam could, but he didn't. He didn't know what to do. If he attacked Henriksen, like his body wanted to do, then Dr. Logan would see that Sam was once again out of control. She would be disappointed because he and Dean had been doing so well--and anyway, Henriksen was lying about them being brothers. He was just saying that to be mean. Everyone knew that Sam's brother was dead.

"You see this, lady?" asked Henriksen. His voice was laughing, but his expression remained still. "The only thing keeping _that_ one from tearing me apart is because I have _this_ one in a headlock and could snap his neck. They're both killers."

"They're not killers," said Dr. Logan, protesting, though it seemed to Sam that her voice sounded unsure. Because, yes, Sam was standing up, his whole body was tense and ready to go.

"Yes, they are. They're both killers, and killers need to be in custody. Which is what I'm here to do."

That was what the meeting was about, Sam realized. Henriksen worked for the FBI and had paperwork to prove who Sam and Dean were, and was going to take them away. The FBI was powerful, more powerful than the hospital, and there was nothing Dr. Logan could do. It was in her face already, in her slumped shoulders, in her arms crossed across her chest.

"You'll need to do the necessary paperwork," she said, her voice low.

"I've done the paperwork," said Henriksen, "and it's on its way." Then he focused on Dean as he tightened his grip a little before he relaxed it. "You and your brother going to take it nice and easy till the bus gets here? Or do I need to show Dr. Logan how an experienced FBI agent keeps his prisoners in check? Starting, of course, with Sam."

Sam jerked backwards, his whole body stiffening at the threat. He watched as Dean nodded, giving in.

Henriksen relaxed his grip and looked directly at Sam as he let Dean go. But the threat was still there, and Sam knew that he had to sit down or Henriksen would have him in a headlock next, and then it would get messy from there because Dean would go ballistic, worse than he had with Randy. So he sat down, and Dean pulled away from Henriksen, breathing hard. But he didn't sit down. He came over to stand next to Sam's chair, not touching Sam, but there, close by. It was the fact that he was shaking that told Sam that they were in deep trouble. Henriksen was going to take them away from the hospital, and Sam didn't think he was the type who would let Sam and Dean share a room.

The thought of being without Dean made his head feel swimmy and he didn't want that. He wanted to be with Dean always.

The phone rang, and Dr. Logan looked at it like she didn't know what it was, like she'd never seen a phone before. It rang again and Henriksen tipped his head towards it.

"You going to get that? I can't get bars way the hell out in bumfuck, so I gave them your number."

She picked up the phone, and said, "This is Dr. Logan," and waited a minute while the other end of the line talked. Then her jaw jutted out. "It's for you," she said, holding out the phone.

For a moment, Henriksen paused. He looked at Dean, then at Sam. "You boys don't move," he said. He didn't sound threatening, but then, maybe he didn't need to.

He walked over to the phone, his body swooshing past them, cooling the air just a fraction. Sam felt sick to his stomach, watching, but he couldn't take his eyes off Henriksen.

"Yes?" said Henriksen into the receiver as he put it next to his ear. "I told you where it is. Bath, Illinois. Right off of 136--no, _southwest_ of Peoria, _northwest_ of Springfield."

There was a long pause, during which Henriksen listened as his face grew long and his jaw tightened, mouth turning down in a scowl. "Then it better be here tomorrow," he said. "Or someone is going to find themselves transferred to Detroit. And frankly, I don't care who." Then he slammed down the phone and glared at them all.

"Seems to be," he said as he grit his teeth, "we're unable to get a bus out here to this backwater town in Podunk till tomorrow. Which means, doctor, that you need to keep these boys locked up and secure until I come back for them. Do you think you can manage that?" Before she could say anything, he added, "Maybe you should put them back in a coma or lobotomize them or some shit because that's the only way--"

"I'll keep them secure," said Dr. Logan. But she sounded faint and it was obvious that she wasn't used to dealing with the likes of Victor Henriksen. That she wanted him out of her office almost as much as Sam did. For Dean's sake as much as his own, because Dean looked so white, he looked like he wanted to throw up.

"Twelve noon," said Henriksen. He sucked his lower lip for a minute as he looked at Sam and Dean together, his head moving back and forth as if he wanted to refute what he saw. "Twelve noon and you boys are all mine." Then he nodded at Dr. Logan and walked to the door, his heels clicking on the linoleum. "I'll have the paperwork and the bus," he said, "and you have these boys ready to go."

Then he opened the door and walked out, slamming the door shut behind him. Sam could hear his voice as he walked down the hall; he seemed to be talking to someone else as he went, but Sam didn't care. Henriksen was gone. Though that didn't seem to matter. Dr. Logan was still tense, and if Sam turned his head, he could see the cotton shirt over Dean's stomach moving with quick, small quivers.

"Well," said Dr. Logan. "I guess that's that, then." She looked at them.

Behind him, Dean moved closer to Sam, brushing his fingers along the back of Sam's shoulder, low, where Dr. Logan couldn't see. Sam knew what they had between them was a secret, because hospitals didn't like you doing that, so he didn't reach back for Dean. Instead, he sat up straight like he was really interested in what Dr. Logan had to say. When really, all he wanted to do was for them, him and Dean, to leave the office and go back to their routine. To the bad food, and the heat in the laundry room, and the puzzles in the Day room that they never got to finish. So that, when the chime sounded for lights out, he could have Dean to himself, all to himself. That's what he wanted.

"I'll give the FBI your paperwork when they come tomorrow," said Dr. Logan, "including the suggestions for care and your list of meds. Hopefully someone will understand how important it is for you to--" She broke off midsentence as she looked out the window at the sunshine and the green lawn. The she shook her head. "I never figured you for brothers because you told me you weren't, so I never thought to run any DNA tests--"

"Dr. Logan?" asked Dean, his voice coming out raw. When she looked at him, her eyebrows raised, he said, "We're not brothers, okay? Henriksen is wrong about that, he--"

"So you do remember him, then." She looked straight at him as she said this.

The room got very still. Sam realized that if Dean did remember Henriksen, even just a little bit, then what Henriksen had been talking about, the vampires and the zombies, was probably true too. Or at least, the people Henriksen had talked to seemed to think it was. Sam would rather believe them, believe Dean, than some FBI agent anyway. Especially since Henriksen didn't seem to like them very much.

"I remember some," said Dean. Sam felt him move a little bit, like he was shrugging, but he kept his eyes on Dr. Logan. "I remember talking to him, and, well, he likes to yell, so…."

"I see." Dr. Logan looked at her desk, at the piles of papers and folders. Her hand reached out to push the edge of one of them back into line with the others in the stack. As she took a deep breath, she looked up. "Well, there's nothing I can do, really, beyond making recommendations, because it's all really out of my hands. I'll send you boys back to your room, that ought to be secure enough, and someone will bring you supper and your meds. And tomorrow, you'll leave the hospital. Not in the way I anticipated it, but, still. That as they say is that."

The way she looked made Sam think that she had expected that when they left the hospital it would be on a more positive note. That the experiment would have resulted in them getting their memory back and happy reunions with people who cared about them. That's the way she had wanted it to go. Not like this. Not delivered into the hands of a man who obviously hated them.

"Okay," she said now. "And when you get there, wherever he's taking you, insist on your rights. Insist on therapy, okay?" She walked to the door, fast, and opened it, and motioned to the orderly waiting there that he could take Sam and Dean back to their room.

Sam stood up and started moving, Dean close behind him. When he got to her he stopped, knowing that Dean would bump into him a little. And he did, but that was okay, because Dean was warm all up and down, and that helped Sam to feel better.

"Thank you," Sam said to Dr. Logan. Her mouth fell open a little, like she was surprised. "Thank you for everything."

"Yeah," said Dean behind him. "Thanks."

She didn't say anything, but Sam watched her pull her shoulders back and take a deep breath. She nodded, and then Sam started walking again, Dean beside him as they went through their hallways to their room. It was getting towards suppertime, Sam could smell cooking meat wafting through the damp, cool air. He wanted to stay in the hospital with Dean, but he knew they had to run away. Because leaving with Henriksen? That would be worse.

 

**Chapter 22**

Dean waited long enough for the orderly to lock them in their room before he grabbed hold of Sam and wrapped his arms around Sam's waist and pressed him hard up against the door. Shaking. His whole body was shaking and holding Sam was the only thing that kept him from spinning off into nothingness. Henriksen had fucking found them, as easily as if Dean had left a trail of breadcrumbs behind him. Maybe it had been the husked bodies sacrificed to the djinn's dreams, maybe it had been the database so helpfully updated by Dr. Logan, Dean didn't know. It didn't matter. Henriksen had them, and his hate was as strong as ever. He'd lock them in separate cells, and he'd never, ever see Sam again.

Dean couldn't even relax his throat enough to tell Sam any of this, or why he was clinging so hard, but Sam didn't seem to need an explanation. He allowed himself to be pressed back and held, maybe too tightly, but his arms came around Dean like a blanket, solid warm bands, pulling Dean to him as he tucked Dean against him. Dean felt the hard bone of Sam's jaw and realized that he was now where Sam so liked to be, tucked close, held safe. His mind kept twisting around what Henriksen could do, he was so scared he thought he might start pissing down his own leg, the way Sam had done.

"Dean?" asked Sam. It wasn't a question in the normal sense, just wanting reassurance.

Dean opened his mouth and tried to give it, but could only remember the sharpness of his panic when he'd leaped to his feet to get Henriksen to shut the fuck up. Sam was so much better now, the last thing he needed was for someone who didn't care about him to insist that he and Dean were brothers. Sam wasn't ready. And somewhere, deep inside of him, Dean knew he wasn't ready either.

"Well, Henriksen's right about one thing," said Sam, his voice rumbling in his chest.

"Huh?" he asked, his mouth muffled against Sam's shirt.

"That you love me more than anything in the world," said Sam. "Otherwise you wouldn't be as worried about him taking us away. You're worried about what he can do to us. To me."

Right on the money. Sam was right on the money, even without the real memories of their encounters with Henriksen getting in the way. He let Sam stroke his hands up and down his arms, along his back, and then he pulled away. He looked up at Sam, who was looking down at him with quiet, still eyes.

It was in Sam's eyes that he already that he knew how worried Dean was, how much Dean cared, even if Dean never said it to him. Which Dean couldn't, not like Sam had said it. What he'd been doing with Sam had been for Sam, and the kind of love Sam was talking about was the kind that should never happen between brothers. That it had gone that way, Dean could chalk that up to them being in the hospital. It had been necessary; a way for him to get through to Sam, to keep him happy and calm till Dean could figure a way out for them. After which, well, they it would stop, this thing between them and that's all there was too it. Once they were out of the hospital, the need for it would be over and then even Dean wouldn't want it any more. That's what he was counting on. What he hadn't counted on was Henriksen forcing them to do it before they were ready. Before Dean was ready.

Someone knocked at the door, and Dean pushed Sam aside, a little roughly maybe, but it kept him from thinking too hard about that, and more about what they needed to do.

The door was unlocked from the outside, and Rubio stood there with a little cart and two trays of food. Dean saw that it was meatloaf and stewed tomatoes and mashed potatoes and his stomach didn't want any of it. Even though, yes, there were two cartons of milk on each tray, and extra butter for Sam's rolls, the way he liked them.

"Here's supper," said Rubio. "And meds. Make sure you take them."

They stood back while Rubio trundled the cart halfway in and then set the trays on top of the dresser. Dean thought about making a break for it right then and there, but it was just at suppertime and there were always long lines of men going to the dining hall and far too many people would spot them.

"Try not to get too much food everywhere," said Rubio. And then he backed the cart out and locked the door behind him. Not saying goodbye or anything, but maybe he didn't know they were scheduled to leave the hospital, sometimes the lists got mixed up, and things went awry. That's was how hospitals were.

"I don't like meatloaf," said Sam. "Especially not with stewed tomatoes."

"Eat it anyway," said Dean. He picked up the little paper cups with pills in them and took them directly to the toilet to flush them away. Then he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face, trying to still the pounding in his chest. As he was drying his face and hands on a towel, Sam stood in the doorway. He took a deep breath to keep calm; if he got worked up, he might telegraph that to Sam, and Sam didn't need that.

"It's going to be okay, isn't it Dean?" Sam asked. His brows were drawn low and he leaned into the doorway like all he wanted was for Dean to tell him that yes, it was.

"C'mon," said Dean. He pushed passed Sam, nudging him with his elbow, but gently. "Let's eat, because I need to think. And you know I can't think on an empty stomach."

He took the trays with more stewed tomatoes on it and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the bed and put the tray on his knees. Sam did likewise, taking his fork up to take the tomatoes from his tray over to Dean's. That was okay because as Dean looked at the tray, the food was already going cold, and his stomach told him that he wouldn't be eating much of anything anyway, so it just didn't matter about the tomatoes. But it made Sam feel better to account for them, just in case the lady from the dining hall was still checking on them, so Dean didn't say anything.

Instead he started in on his meatloaf and the icy mashed potatoes, washing down each bite with some milk. He saved his roll and butter for last, and the last half of his second carton of milk so that he could chug it all down at once and feel the coolness of the milk coating his stomach.

He watched Sam struggle with his food. His hair hung over his eyes and his mouth was all screwed up as he concentrated eating what he simply did not want to eat. But he was eating it because Dean had told him to. Before, when they were brothers on the road, Sam was just as likely to question Dean as he was to obey him. And one day, they would get back to that, though how, Dean simply didn't know. When Sam remembered what Dean had done to him, there would be no going back to what they'd had before. Or keeping what they had now.

He hoped that Sam would one day understand. And then forgive him. Until then, Dean would just keep doing what needed to be done.

"Sam," he said, putting his fork on the tray and then the tray on the floor. He put a hand on each knee. "So here's the deal."

Sam looked up, chewing. "What?" he asked, around his food.

"I'm going to tell you a memory, so you'll know what's going on, okay?"

"A memory?" Sam asked. "One of yours?"

"Yeah. So here it is." Dean took a deep breath. "I remember Henriksen. I remember him so fucking well. Henriksen hates us. Our family, I mean, our _families_ live off the grid and we hunt all these things he mentioned and more besides. He doesn't like us doing that. When he picks us up tomorrow, he's going to lock us away in separate cells on different sides of the country, and we'll never see the light of day again. Understand?" Dean's throat felt dry, and he wanted more milk, or water, or anything to wash down the panic.

"Uh-huh." Sam swallowed his mouthful of food and then put his fork down on the tray. Then he put his tray down and looked right at Dean. Like he was ready to do whatever Dean said at a moment's notice. "And I'd never see you again."

"Yeah," said Dean. Obviously to Sam that was the worst part. Sam had made it clear, if not in exactly those words, but in everything he did, that he wouldn't care if he was locked up in the bottom of a mine, as long as Dean was with him. Something hard and sharp worked its way up Dean's throat. He had to swallow it back down just as hard. "So we don't want that. Which means we need to get out of here before then. Before tomorrow noon."

"You mean escape," said Sam. It wasn't the first time they'd talked about this, but Dean could tell that Sam knew he meant business and that soon Sam was going to have to put his money where his mouth was and decide when Dean walked out of there whether he was going to go with Dean or stay and maybe get left behind forever.

"Yeah. We're going to escape. I've got a way--I can pick locks with paperclips. You ever remember me doing that?"

"No," said Sam. He shook his head slowly. "I don't. But if you say you can, then, I believe you."

Sam would probably believe him if Dean told him he could fart rainbows out of his ass at this point. Which was fine, as long as Sam followed Dean and did what Dean told him, right up to the point where his memory returned, that's all Dean wanted. They had to get out before Henriksen got them in his clutches, because after that, it would be all over.

"So what we need to do is get some rest, because when it gets quiet, when the shift changes later, I'm going to get us out of here."

"And we're going to sneak out that window," said Sam.

"Right," said Dean, feeling himself smile, pleased that Sam remembered. "Right out that window. And we'll get far away, far away so that Henriksen will never find us."

Sam opened his mouth like he had lots of questions he wanted to ask, but Dean's rule had always been that Sam had to remember for himself, so he steeled himself for the questions. Steeled himself to refuse Sam.

But Sam only asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to finish eating as much as you can. At least the milk and the bread. And then we have to go to bed. I'll wake you up when it's time to go."

Nodding, Sam reached for one of his cartons of milk.

Watching Sam concentrating on his supper, Dean felt the pull in his chest, the one that led to the dark places where the only bright thing was Sam. Sam who said he loved him, Sam who trusted him. All of it stirred together with something fierce and powerful, and all he wanted to do was pull Sam to him and whisper things that only Sam's heart would hear. But he didn't, he couldn't. It would be a distraction that neither of them needed. But he could feel it, just for now. Once they got out of the hospital. That's what Dean promised himself. Then it would stop.

*

Sam took off his clothes and put on his p.j.'s. Then he put his clothes back on, including both pairs of socks, keeping his eyes on Dean the whole time as he did the same thing. Sam felt a lot warmer with all the layers and it occurred to him to wonder why the hospital was always so damn chilly, it seemed stupid to keep the patients living in what was practically an ice box.

Dean didn't seem to mind, though. He was fine rain or shine. Sam smiled, thinking about this.

"We're going to go to bed," Dean said now. "Even before the chime, okay?"

"Okay," Sam said. His stomach was curling around itself a little at the thought of what they were going to do. He watched Dean get his five paper clips out from the drawer and place them on top of the dresser. Then he turned to look at Sam.

"Okay," he said. "Bedtime."

It was still the favorite part of Sam's day, that moment when he lay next to Dean, their heads towards each other on the pillow. But when he reached for Dean, Dean pushed his hands back and pulled the covers over his chest.

"Not--not now, Sam," he said. His eyes sparkled in the light of the overhead bulb, which burned brightly. "I know we probably won't sleep--"

"I'm not sleepy at all," said Sam

"--right but we need to rest and I need to think. I need to make sure I thought of everything. So."

It made sense, but Sam found himself frowning. Then Dean reached out and stroked his arm, with the edges of his fingers, up and down.

"C'mon, Sam. For me?"

It was hard to resist the soft coaxing feel of Dean's voice. It made him feel like he would do anything Dean asked. So he rolled towards Dean, but kept his distance as he clasped his hand around Dean's elbow, keeping his fingers loose so Dean could roll away and face the wall if he wanted to.

"Sleep now," said Sam, agreeing.

*

He never even heard the lights-out chime, though how he managed to fall asleep with the lights still on was something else. But he had. Dean was shaking him awake, and when Sam opened his eyes, Dean was a long, warm grey line in the dark, nudging and pushing him to get out of bed. Sam moved his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, his toes feeling for his slip-on sneakers, his jaw cracking as he yawned. He watched Dean put on his sneakers and rub his hands through his hair, making it stand straight up.

As Sam stood up, Dean grabbed his arm. "I need you to remember," said Dean, his mouth brushing against Sam's ear so softly the skin along the side of his neck started to tingle. "If I pull you, come. If I hold you, stop. If I push you, you run and keep running, okay? And don't say anything till we're beyond the fence. If we get caught, don't say anything at all."

These were instructions Dean had give him at least five times while they'd lain in bed before Sam had fallen asleep. He opened his mouth, still half groggy, but remembered in time to keep his yap shut, like Dean said, and only nodded. He cupped his hand over Dean's hand on his arm and squeezed with his fingers.

"Good," said Dean. "Now, stick close."

Dean grabbed up the paperclips and stuck four of them along the waistband of his boxers. Sam couldn't see exactly what Dean was doing but knew he must be unfolding the paperclip like he'd talked about and was now sticking it in the keyhole of the lock on the door, wiggling it around till it clicked. Sam could feel Dean's elbows against his side as Dean did something with both of his hands, and then the lock clicked again. A second later, the door swung open.

Sam was suddenly wide awake. His heart thumped loud, like he remembered reading about in books, so loud he figured if someone were nearby they might be able to hear it. But it was only loud in his own ears, it was the rushing of blood past his eardrums, was all. Still his breath was pretty ragged as he stuck close to Dean and tried to match his movements as they both slid along corridor wall and down the side staircase.

Dean's plan had been straightforward. First get the keys and some necklace he wanted from Dr. Logan's office. Then, second, get downstairs to the broken window. And third, slide out the broken window and into the outside world. Easy. Dean had made it sound easy.

The first part was. The main corridor to Dr. Logan's office was half-dim with nighttime lighting, and the circles of muted dark were easily twice the size of the brighter areas, but the coolness of the air seemed to absorb a lot of that. There was no one in the main hall. As they hurried to the end of the corridor, Sam heard voices coming from the open stairwell by the main door, and he could see Dean's face by the light coming in from the windows from the parking lot. Dean shook his head. Sam knew that meant he wasn't to pay attention to the voices and that he was to stick close. So he did.

He kept right on Dean's heels, close enough to feel Dean's arms reaching for the next paperclip, unbending it as he bent over and Sam hung close. He watched Dean's fingers at the lock, heard the click. It was almost surreal the speed with which Dean moved, and he liked thinking about that. About Dean's hands, his fingers, warm on Sam's skin, or tangled in Sam's hair. It was much better to focus on Dean's hands instead of being in Dr. Logan's office without any lights on. The bright, sunny room he'd been in several times was now dark and empty, and the sounds Dean was making as he went through the drawers banged in Sam's ears.

But he didn't tell Dean to hush or be quiet. Dean knew how much noise he was making, obviously. The keys to the car, the black car Dean talked about, were important. No one else should have them. But the necklace, that was another thing. Dean had barely mentioned it, like it was a secret he felt he should keep from Sam. When Dean pulled the necklace out, Sam wanted to ask him. But the look on Dean's face as he looked away, muscles tight and his eyes unfocused as though on some long ago memory as he put the necklace over his head and settled it against his skin under his shirt made Sam keep his mouth shut. Dean would tell Sam one day, or he wouldn't. It didn't matter to Sam, as long as he had Dean.

Then, a second later, Dean was rushing at him, pushing him out the door to the office, letting it snap shut and lock behind them as they hurried towards the door to the stairwell to the basement. Dean tried the handle and it wasn't even locked. He looked at Sam, the glow of the reflection off the floor giving his face a weird cut look, like half of him was made of darkness, the other half, some clownishly bright smile. Sam didn't know what Dean was thinking, but he knew what he was thinking. Dean had said he'd tested the basement doors before and they were always locked. Always. That this one wasn't was strange. Sam's mouth went dry, like he'd been running.

He wanted to ask, _isn't this weird?,_ and as Dean looked at him, he felt that Dean rather wanted to ask the same thing. But the rule was still in place. You couldn't just break rules for no reason. You had to have a really good reason. But still, Dean looked frozen in place, and so Sam reached out his hand, and, with his hand on top of Dean's hand, slowly turned the knob.

This seemed to wake Dean up, because he elbowed Sam out of the way a bit to open the door, and tugged on Sam's shirt to get him to follow. Sam did, down the cement stairs and along the completely dark passageway that smelled like basement and old paper, and that dank smell of mice nest that felt oddly comfortable. He almost wanted to linger, but Dean was moving, kept moving, and Sam had to keep up. He realized he was hot, almost too hot, but there wasn't time to stop and lean against the cool cement wall to make the feeling go away. And suddenly, he wanted them to toss this idea out on its ear and go back to their rooms. Surely Henriksen would let them stay together? Did they have to be outlaws on the run to stay together?

He was starting to feel all rattled inside when the got to the door at the end of the passage. Dean was muttering to himself, numbers, it sounded like. Then he turned around and backed up and Sam realized they'd gone one door too far. At the next to the last door, Dean stopped again and tried the knob. It was locked, but in the dark, Sam could hear him pulling the next paperclip from his boxers, and while the unbending of it was absolutely silent, the click in the lock was not. In fact, it sounded rather loud.

"Dean," Sam whispered, unable to keep his yap shut one second longer. "We should go back."

Dean didn't say anything, and Sam couldn't tell if he was looking or listening or what. He tugged on Dean's shirt in the dark.

" _Dean_."

Dean continued to ignore him, continued to work on the lock, which finally snapped open. Dean opened the door, pushing it inward, and yanked Sam into the room with him, shutting the door quietly behind him. He still didn't say anything, but the hard edge to his breathing told Sam enough. Dean was pissed, and rightfully so. Sam bit on his lower lip, and tried not to say anything else, it was already bad enough.

There was light now, coming in through the window that Sam knew was the right one. It had the same metal cross bracing, the same little squares. Dean was doing something in the half-dark, it looked like he was dragging a box for them to stand on, so Sam went to help him. Dean let him, and Sam figured he wasn't much help, but it was better than standing around. Besides, it let him get close to Dean, shoulder to shoulder for a minute, soaking in Dean's calm.

It wasn't so bad until Dean propped the window open with a something, and hopped up on the box, his hands on the ledge. Outside, beyond Dean, it was raining, the drops cutting through the light and into the grass like grey blades. All at an angle, like the wind was blowing. A gust of cold air shot into the room. It was then Sam realized his knees were banging together and his heart was speeding up fast enough to be uncomfortable.

His mouth opened but just then, Dean swung up his leg, and bracing himself on one elbow, swung the other leg up, and slipped through the window. Only half of him showed now, his shoulder, and one arm. He reached in through the window towards Sam.

"C'mon, Sam." His whisper was rough, as if he were mad at himself for breaking the no talking rule. "C'mon, let's go."

Sam couldn't move. He wanted Dean to come back in through that window so they could go back upstairs and into their room. He knew Dean had left the door to their room ajar, it would be so easy to return there. To the four walls, and the two narrow beds. To the place where he knew Dean, and knew Dean loved him. Out there in the world? Maybe not so much. There was so much Dean could return to that didn't involve Sam.

"Sam!" Now Dean's voice had risen and he laid his head down on the wet grass, ignoring the rain and the poky ends of the grass against his face so that he could reach for Sam.

"C'mon. I know you're scared. Come with me."

Sam swallowed. Dean was brave, so very brave. He looked at Sam, his shoulders twisting in through the opening of the window, and Sam thought that he was on the verge of climbing back into the room to give Sam a hug and maybe a kiss and whatever else he might need to bolster up his courage to go with Dean. In that second, Sam knew he had to pony up and climb out that window. They didn't have the time Dean was willing to give him, they had to leave now. Besides. He wanted to be as brave as Dean.

He let Dean pull on his arm as he stepped on the box and lifted himself on the ledge. He swung first one leg through and then the other. Then he was flat on the wet grass, soaked through in seconds, teeth chattering, the rain coming down like hard pellets as Dean swung the window closed and got to his feet.

Then he was standing over Sam, looking down, the light from the floodlights high on the second floor bathing his hair in glints and spikes. His eyes were dark, and as he reached down to pull Sam to his feet, he was smiling. It was a real smile, and the lights stroked his lips with shadows, and Sam moved in, kissing that mouth, closing his eyes, just for a second. Feeling the rain on the side of his face, and a memory, of another time, he'd been following someone, feeling a rain just like this one, and they'd been arguing. He felt himself tighten and then Dean pushed at him a little, and Sam opened his eyes. Dean's face was close to his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

"Sam," he said, sighing.

Then, with a hard pull on Sam's arm, Dean started to move. Across the lawn and towards the white fence that stuck up out of the dark lawn like reaching teeth. He was moving fast and Sam almost had to run to keep up with him. Their feet slipped on the grass, and mud splattered up at them. They couldn't slip and waste time, they couldn't. They had one chance and this was it. When Dean sped up, Sam did too, and in a second, they were at the gap in the fence. There were more stones gone, but more plastic fence posts in place, so the gap was a little narrower. But not too narrow to slip through.

For a second, Dean paused, turning to look over Sam's shoulder at the hospital. Sam looked with him, squinting as he faced the bright floodlights, wincing as the rain hit him full on in the face. The hospital was lit from a few windows, but most of them were dark, and there was no sound except for the sharp hiss of rain on the leaves as the trees slapped each other in the growing wind.

"Let's go," said Dean, from behind him.

Sam turned and watched Dean leap through the gap, disappearing in the darkness beyond. Sam's heart thudded, he was shivering all over, but something in his stomach sparkled, moving up into him like tiny lights. Energy, spreading as he pushed off his heels and into the gap. The slope on the other side of the fence gave way and he slid down it, arms out, trying to keep his balance. When he hit the bottom of the slope, water splashed under his feet, and he almost felt the water pulling at his shoes, but Dean was there. Wrapping his arms all around Sam, pulling Sam close. Sam realized he was laughing, out loud, right into Dean's ear.

"Told you this was a good idea," said Dean. His mouth smiling and warm against Sam's skin.

The rain felt like icicles and the wind howled. There was no going back, but Sam knew he didn't want to.

*

They waded through dark water, sloshing with every step along the flooded riverbank. There were dim shapes of trees on the river side of them, and where they were was the path, with the rest of the bank rising up along their right, thick with brush and long trailing vines. Periodically, lightning flashed to show them how the path rose above the waterline, only to dip down again as they went, wetting them practically up to their knees. Sam thought that maybe they should go to higher ground and not walk so close to the river that seemed to be rising as the rain kept falling.

But then he tried to think about it like Dean would, that the river would hide their tracks and their scent, and the longer they did this, the further they could get without leaving a trace of the way they'd gone. Sam knew this, and whether it was from a book or from something he'd done with Dean or his brother at one point, he didn't know. He just knew that even though his head was ducked down into his chest, he was cold through, and the underside of his chin was the only warm spot on him. His cotton clothes were soaked and sticking to him and the chill was eating at him as easily as if he were naked, gnawing its way into his bones, leaving him shivering, different parts of him twitching in an earnest desire to keep warm. His hands were as far up their sleeves as they would go, but it wasn't helping. As for his feet, he couldn't feel them at all. For all he knew, he might have lost his shoes.

He focused on Dean, on the dark outline of those shoulders only one foot ahead of him, head down, walking, always walking. For an hour or more this went on, until the rain started to let up and it didn't seem like it was quite so dark. But even as the rain let up, Sam felt a surge of energy against his legs and thought that the water was continuously up to his knees now. Was the river rising?

"You okay, Sam?" asked Dean over his shoulder, not slowing his pace.

"Right as rain," said Sam, saying it before he thought it. This earned him a small laugh from Dean, as he paused and looked back at Sam. Sam could barely see his face, and his teeth were chattering so hard, he thought he'd missed what Dean said.

"What?" he asked.

"We gotta go up," said Dean. "I don't know, I think the river is rising."

"I think so too," said Sam, his front teeth clicking together hard. His lips were so numb, he couldn't feel his tongue against them. "How far?"

"Two miles, maybe," said Dean. "Let's go up, and see."

Eager, Sam turned to go up the bank, away from the rush of water only inches on the other side of the trees. In the dark, he stepped on a loose rock and slipped, and had to grab whatever he could to stay upright. Beside him, Dean was doing the same, holding on to the damp underbrush, shoving his heels into the mud, slipping sideways, grabbing again. Moving on. Up. Up the bank, to where the ground was flat and if not completely dry, still dryer than walking along the river. At the last bit, Dean shoved himself up, and then turned to reach out his hands towards Sam.

"Up," said Dean. Sam grabbed Dean's hands, feeling the bare heat under the grit and cold. He wanted to stand there for a minute to catch his breath, but Dean was already moving on, across the flat grassy field at the top of the bank. Sam oriented himself upright and followed.

Away from the river, the wind cut across the grasses and the sky and into their skins, knife cold, and Sam ached like his bones were twisting to get away. There was a road, Sam could see the empty straight lines of the blacktop, outlined by the line of trees on the other side. But they couldn't follow the road, not yet, so he crossed the small field behind Dean, and into the low brush and dark, scraggly trees. The wet leaves slapped water into their faces, and Sam figured they couldn't get any wetter so it didn't matter.

"You gonna make it, Sam?" asked Dean at one point, turning back to look at him as he held a branch out of the way.

"Cold," was all Sam could manage to say. He was so cold, he ached all over, couldn't feel his hands now, and he just wanted to lie down and sleep. He couldn't really see Dean's expression, but figured that was okay, he knew what Dean's face was saying. What it always said, how he was looking out for Sam, something sparking brightly in his eyes as his mouth tried not to smile.

Dean turned as Sam slipped by the branch and they kept walking until they got to a group of houses, all clustered along the road and down along the slope towards the river. It had stopped raining completely now and a bit of moonlight had come out to light their way. That, along with the odd streetlight and porch light made it almost bright enough to see.

"We could find a clothesline, take some clothes," said Dean, whispering as he pulled Sam to him to keep them both on the shadows.

Stealing. Dean was talking about stealing. Of course, Sam might be remembering it wrong, but stealing was against the law. Then again, so was escaping right out from beneath the noses of the FBI. "Those'll be wet," said Sam.

"Something from a garage or a shed, then," said Dean. "We got to get something warmer to wear, plus we still look like what we are. Which is escapees from the loony bin."

Sam tried to laugh but he was clamping his jaw closed so tightly he couldn't manage it. Dean wasn't complaining so he wouldn't either. Besides, there was no help for it. Maybe stealing clothes was a good idea.

"Hey," said Dean. He was right up against Sam now and he reached out to put his fingers against Sam's face. "You're like ice."

"So're you," said Sam, his chest shuddering.

"Why didn't you say something?"

"You didn't," said Sam.

"Damnit," said Dean. He pulled Sam close. "You could come with me to do this, or you could stay here, out of the wind."

Sam thought about this for a minute, his eyes scanning the narrow street that paralleled the river and laced between the houses like a muddy string. "I'm holding you back," he said. He didn't know how to pick a lock with a paperclip and he certainly didn't know how to steal anything.

That Dean could, that Dean was obviously willing to didn't make him think twice about how he felt about Dean. He still loved Dean. But it was a surprise, like the paperclips had been. He supposed it wouldn't be the last surprise that Dean would show him, and these odd talents of Dean's didn't make him a bad person. Besides, Sam knew that he'd not come all this way and trusted him with as much as he had just to start making judgments in the middle of the night somewhere north of--where was it, Bath? In the rain.

Dean seemed to sense his hesitation, but Sam leaned into his shoulder. "I'll go with you. I don't know if I'll be of any help but--"

He felt Dean's nose, cold against the coldness of his skin, the scent and mud and of Dean clinging to him. "You don't have to do a thing," said Dean. "Except--"

"I know," said Sam. "Except keep my yap shut."

He followed Dean as Dean crept along the edge of the muddy lane, looking at houses, testing doors on sheds, peering in windows. Every now and then they heard the far-off roll of thunder. But except for the wind whispering around the corners of buildings and finding every single gap in their clothes, the little group of houses was quiet.

It was when the road took them to the river's edge that Sam could see why. Half of the town was flooded out, and the road they were standing on ended sharply under the water. Someone had put a warning sign with blinking orange lights on the road, and overhead, there was a bright, white floodlight attached to a telephone pole. They could see ragged stumps of bridge pylons and tops of houses, mostly underwater, and the occasional tree stump clogging the edge of the river.

"They got flooded out," said Sam. It seemed strange to think that all the while him and Dean had been locked in the institution that the rain had washed people right out of their houses and they never knew. The world had continued to go on without them, but he didn't know how that would change, now that he and Dean were in it. "Where are we?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Looks like we got our pick of houses, though," he said. "Let's try some doors."

It was almost surreal tying so many doors, opening them rather than knocking or ringing doorbells, which is what Sam remembered that regular people did. But he and Dean weren't regular, at least not at the moment, and Dean seemed to think that they could just find some clothes that would fit them and take them, and everything would be fine. Well, dry clothes would be warmer, so that was something. So Sam kept trying doors. Dean took one side of the street and he took the other.

After about five doors and one shed later, Dean hissed at him, and Sam hunched his shoulders against the cut of the wind, and hurried across the muddy street, his feet smashing through puddles. When he got there, Dean was standing there with the side door open to a little house that seemed to lean to one side.

"The garage was full of tools," said Dean, "so I'm thinking we could find something."

With his heart hammering in his throat, Sam followed Dean into the empty kitchen of the dark house, the smell of mold whapping him in the face, and the sound of something scurrying away in the dark making him want to step right back outside. But Dean wasn't hesitating, no, Dean was walking through the dark like he'd lived there all his life, not worried at all. Not about the dark, or the mice, or the mold. Or, maybe, not even ghosts. Sam hadn't thought about ghosts in a long time but he was thinking about them now. It was the perfect recipe, and because the town was probably all empty, no one would hear them scream.

"D-dean?"

"Shhh," said Dean. That meant, _keep your yap shut, Sam_.

Sam pushed close and tried not to breathe too loud, because maybe then Dean would send him back outside. And who knew what lurked out there.

Dean went into every room, and finally they found the laundry room, and with a low sound in his throat, Dean reached back to pat Sam.

"I know it's dark, but feel around."

There was enough light coming through the window, though, that after a moment it was almost as bright as their room back at the institution. Not enough to read by, but enough to get around. Sam spotted something hanging on the wall, and when he went over, he discovered there were two jackets made of denim, one lined with flannel and one lined with wool. He handed the flannel one to Dean because it was softer. Then Dean held up a pair of pants to Sam.

"Didn't quite make it to washday," Dean said, keeping his voice low. "But try them anyway."

The pants were stiff in places and smelled like glue or paint, Sam wasn't sure. But as Dean found himself a pair of pants, too, Sam obediently changed out of his damp, thin cotton pants and p.j.'s.

His hands along his bare thighs were so numb, it felt like he was touching someone else's leg. Then he slipped the jeans on over his still-damp boxers.

"Hey," said Dean. "I found socks and boots."

The socks smelled bad, like old goat or something, but Sam held his breath and put them on because Dean was holding out a pair of black boots, and he knew if he put the socks on, and then the boots, he'd be a whole lot warmer.

They got dressed in their borrowed finery in silence, and once the boots were on and laced up, the smell wasn't so bad. And the pants could be excused from being stiff because they were thick and warm. The denim jacket, when he put it on, was stiff like the pants, and Sam suspected the person, a man, probably, had caulked or painted a house. He didn't know how he knew, just that the smell and the stiffness was familiar. Dean rolled up their cotton clothes from the hospital and stuffed them under the table and kicked them hard.

"Let's go," said Dean.

They went back out through the kitchen, and though they looked in the cupboards and the fridge, there wasn't any food.

"I don't want to hang around too long," said Dean, "but I'd like to keep looking in the other houses for food we can carry and eat as we go, okay? Water, beef jerky, crackers, stuff like that."

Sam's stomach was too cold still to be hungry, but he nodded his head he shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. They were lined with wool which was, by some miracle, still soft. "Okay," he said as he followed Dean out of the door and back into the fresh air.

They checked houses as they went, always keeping sight of the river on their left. In one house, where the mold covered the entire of one wall of the living room, they found crackers in the cupboard, still sealed in their box. In another house, there was a canteen that they tried to fill with water at the sink, only the plumbing wasn't working. But then they found bottles of water, which they stuffed in the plastic grocery sack Dean had found. Sam found some beef jerky, and then Dean discovered two cans of pineapple, complete with pop tops so they didn't even need a can opener. When Dean found a hunting knife in someone's garage, he tipped his head at Sam.

"We should head out," he said.

Dean could probably walk all night, and if that's what he wanted to do, Sam was willing to follow where he led. Dean opened the door and gestured Sam out like he was the doorman or something, with a little bow and sweep of his hand.

Sam decided that it was okay. They'd only stolen what they'd needed, and they hadn't broken anything to do it. They'd only taken two pairs of everything and that out of dire need, so it wasn't quite like real stealing.

They walked along the lane as it worked its way between the houses in fits and starts until they were out along the road again, and away from the streetlights. The road slashed like a long shadow through the darkness.

"We go left, I think," said Dean. "Watch for cars. We'll find a path in the woods, if we can." He looked at Sam, his eyes sparkles in the dark. For Dean this was fun, apparently, so Sam didn't say that he was tired, and yes, he was hungry, and no, he didn't want to keep walking. If Dean could do it, so could he.

"Stay close, Sam," said Dean.

So Sam did.

 

**Chapter 23**

They walked through the night and into the dawn as it floated across the fields and along the glistening wet road. It was raining. Again. It was raining just on them and if Dean never saw the blighted state of Illinois again it would be too soon.

The sky, now that they were under it and it was not framed by four walls, was a little big. Just like Sam said. Dean half expected an orderly to approach them to ask them why they were out of line and where did they think they were going? Dean had his answer ready, in case that happened, and he knew it was going to take a while to get over the expectation of a set routine, but it didn't make him miss the hospital much.

Beside him, in boots that were just a little bit too big, Sam stumbled along. Trudging, hands tucked in his pockets of a wool-lined and stained jean jacket, wearing jeans that were stiff with something dark that smelled like chew tobacco and wet corn. His hair was plastered to his head, chin tucked into his chest as he concentrated on walking.

Dean dreaded the moment when, in the lee of some building, Sam might look at him with want in his eyes and Dean would have to tell him no. His resistance to Sam was already so low, and with Sam being the only familiar thing for miles, it did not look good for Dean to be keeping his promise to himself.

But Sam was there and in one piece. Next to Dean.

That was the good part. The only good part of this whole mess. He'd gotten Sam out, he'd gotten himself out, and while walking in the rain part had sucked pretty bad, Sam's color was good and the fresh air, although damp, was erasing the dim look in Sam's eyes.

Sam stayed close. That was also good.

Dean didn't know how many miles they were out of Bath, or exactly what time it was. They certainly weren't making good time walking, and they might actually be lost. They'd come out of the woods and started along a two-lane black top, East Manito Road, by the sign, but other than that, Dean had no other markers to go by, beyond the road and the flat, spring-plowed fields that glittered green and dark brown in the constant rain, the fat, wet drops drooping off every single blade of grass and weed.

"Why aren't we hitching, again?" asked Sam.

"Because, Sam, long about noon Henriksen is going to discover that we are missing and they'll put up road blocks to stop us."

"But we don't have a car," said Sam, being stubborn in a way that was all to familiar. "So why would it matter?"

"Because, Henriksen, who thinks he knows us, will assume we would steal a car or hitch a ride, hence the roadblocks. We're going to fool him."

"By walking."

"Yes, by walking. Back roads."

"By walking very slowly."

"Christ." Dean waved this off. Of course it didn't make sense, which is why Henriksen wouldn't be able to figure it out in time. He might be able to figure out where they were headed soon enough. But before that, before that his pride would refuse to admit that he couldn't string a net fast enough to keep the Winchester boys from getting that far, they had a chance of getting away. The one good thing about having the devil he knew was that he could gamble with pretty good odds as to what Henriksen might do.

They came to a three-way crossroads where the crumbly blacktop of East Manito was intersected by county road 2280, which looked like it headed south. The county road was oiled and the rain pooled in slick obliques and triangles as it headed away across the muddy fields. Not knowing exactly where Peoria was in relationship to them, Dean could still guess that they should keep going the way they had been.

"Peoria's this way," said Dean, pulling on Sam's sleeve to get him to stop looking at the oiled road and continue along the blacktop.

"Are we going there?"

"No, but from there I know where Joliet is."

"It's a big country," said Sam. "I remember maps. Was I in charge of the maps?"

"Uh-huh," said Dean, looking back the way they'd come, along the black road that led through the water-soaked fields. "You were the navigator."

"Did you ever let me drive?"

"Sometimes." The memory was a good one. He turned to smile at Sam. It was nice to be breathing in air that didn't reek of wet socks or old wet dog or someone's piss, that didn't have the metallic taste of medicine. It was fresh air that hummed past his ears with distant birdcalls, the rasp of damp grass against the ground. No chimes, or orderlies chatting. No dining hall full of loonies who couldn't keep their mouths closed when they chewed.

"C'mon," he said. "We'll keep walking and stay warm, and when it gets dark, we can find a shed or something, get some sleep."

"Dean," said Sam. He was shaking his head, water dripping down the side of his face. "There aren't abandoned sheds just littered from coast to coast for us to sleep in."

"I know," said Dean. He shrugged, feeling the cold drops slip down his shirt collar. "We'll find something. You don't remember, but we always do."

They walked.

They walked while it rained, and walked when the rain let up, heading east along the road, their feet making regular gritty thumps along the graveled edges of the road. And then, when the road canted to the northeast along a railroad track, they kept walking. The wind picked up, moaning past their ears, making the rain come down hard, slicing at their faces. And while Dean didn't complain about being hungry, Sam had no compunctions.

"I could eat my arm," he said. They'd polished off the fruit and crackers ages ago and thrown the bag in a ditch. "Hell, I could eat your arm, if I had some salt and a nice fire to cook it over."

"Sorry I didn't think to steal matches," said Dean. They just had to keep walking.

At one point, they heard the roar of an engine, and Dean pulled Sam down into the little ditch before they could even see it. It sounded too rattle-bang to be an engine kept in tune by a mechanic at the FBI, but still. It wouldn't be good if some lone driver spotted them and thought to call his wife or his friends about two idiots walking along who didn't know how to get out of the rain. Or a driver who would know just how close the local loony bin was and who might have heard about two escaped patients and decide to collect the reward money.

The ditch was half full of water and lined with pokey weeds that were brittle from the winter. Dean kept them both down, his arm across Sam's back, watching Sam's dark hair trail in the scummy water, his head just two inches above the surface. His green eyes looking at Dean the whole time, trusting Dean to get him to wherever they were going.

They waited while the rattle of the engine passed above them. Dean didn't even look to mark the year and the model; it didn't matter, the car hadn't stopped. Then he let them get up. They scrambled up the wet bank, holding on to grass to steady themselves. Sam was soaked all along one side, and Dean along the other. They were a matched set, should anyone ever be collecting a couple of soaked runaways.

Towards the waning of the afternoon, when Sam had stopped talking, the complaints about being hungry having stopped with them, they slunk into a town that boasted the name of Forest City, though there were only a few trees and certainly no forest. The streets were lined with some houses and stores and a gas station, but no one was around and the town seemed fairly quiet. It was the granary, which boasted the town's name painted on the side, that stood out, gleaming and new, squatting with three huge cone-topped silos next to the train tracks. There were towns like this all over the place; the Impala had hupped its wheels over many a train track just like this one, with two sets of rails and a crossing of red lights to warn of oncoming trains.

Dean raised his hand for Sam to stop and looked at the metal rails, gleaming in the damp as they raced off in two different directions, east and west.

"You know it's funny," said Sam, stopping, his hands in his pockets as his shoulders brushed Dean's. His voice was a little stiff from not talking. "But I can almost see what you're thinking."

"What's that?" asked Dean. He scratched the back of his head, wondering how he'd gotten mud in his hair, and wiped his fingers on his soaked jeans.

"Surely he'll be thinking about trains," said Sam. As he looked at Dean, strings of hair fell across his eyes, and he looked blue with cold, and Dean wanted nothing more than to build a roaring fire for him, right there and then.

"Yes, probably," said Dean. He looked at the tracks again. "But those rails look new, so there're probably a lot of trains, and they slow down when coming through a town like this one. Are you game?"

"We don't even know where it's going," said Sam.

"Doesn't matter. We'll catch the first eastbound one, and if we don't know where we are going, then Henriksen can't find us, right?"

A car came down the street, some sort of station wagon with rusted wheel wells and new tires. The driver didn't even slow down to look at them, though Dean made Sam turn his back on it like they were going to cross the tracks in a second. The town seemed pretty empty and quiet; he imagined that people were all out at their farms, polishing up their John Deeres or whatever.

"We going to jump on a moving train, then?" asked Sam.

"Yeah." The adventure of it made Dean smile, though his stomach had decided at that moment to start eating at itself, growling around with hunger, shredding to reach with claws made of steel. "The slowest one we can find."

They went to stand between the granary and the tracks. It was good to rest, out of the wind, even if the metal granary was cold against their backs and sucked all the warmth out of them. It was good to stand still, and lean his head back and look at Sam. Sam, who looked like he'd been wiping his nose with mud-stained hands. His dark hair was laying flat on his head, and he looked ready to sleep standing up. But like the Sam he knew, the real Sam, this one wasn't a complainer, not when things got bad. He'd grit his jaw and had walked half the night and most of the day, and had only complained, really, for something to do. Dean would rather have his own Sam back, of course, that was going to be for the best. But it was interesting to see how Sam might have been, had there never been any Winchester influence in his life.

They waited, not talking, just resting against the side of the granary. It might have been about an hour they waited, while the clouds gathered on one side of the sky and the sun set in the other. Then Dean heard it, the long, faraway howl and a low rumble coming from the west of them. Then the red crossing lights began to blink and a second later, the striped guards came down, the bells clanging. Dean looked at the tracks and saw where the train would have to not only curve but also go slowly because of the proximity of the tracks to the granary.

"Here," he said. "It'll go slowly through here. Look for an open boxcar, and throw yourself in. Don't bother with the ladders, though, no matter what you see in the movies."

Sam looked at him, his brows lowering, and Dean realized that maybe Sam couldn't remember seeing any movies. Still, the truth was there, the ladders might not be firmly attached, and might come away under the weight. He wasn't an expert at getting on a slow moving train, but in the face of that inexperience, the safest thing to do was do it as simply as possible. They could jump into the open boxcar, and the distance wouldn't be that great. It would probably work. Probably.

Within five minutes, the dusty blunted nose of the diesel engine came pounding into view. Dean took the liberty of waving at the engineer, who kindly waved back and pulled on his whistle a few times. Then Dean started to watch the cars. Three engines went by, and then some closed cars. A few open flat ones. More closed ones. He was just about to reconsider his idea when he spotted the open door of a boxcar. It was faded yellow, and the side was painted in grey swirls that meant something to somebody in some gang somewhere, like a signpost.

"See it, Sam?" he asked, pointing along the row of cars. "Here it comes."

He tightened himself up and leaned forward, and when the diesel hit the curve, and the boxcar hit the crossing, the whole train slowed down. He started running, looking back to make sure Sam was behind him. Sam was running, too, his mouth open, eyes wide, startled, like he couldn't really believe he was doing this. Dean knew that the stealing had really thrown Sam, but Dean hoped this wouldn't be so bad. It wasn't like they were actually taking anything this time. Just hitching a ride on a train that was already going the direction they wanted to go.

From up close, the train rumbled deep into the ground, shaking Dean through the bottoms of his feet. But he ran as close to the edge of the train as he could, and found the train was going slower than he was. He planted his hands on the edge of the open doorway, feeling the splintery wood beneath his hands, and pulled himself up, kicking off the ground as the ground seemed to give way beneath his boots. He rolled along the slatted floor, turning to look for Sam, just as the train started to pick up speed.

Sam was running, his long legs just about catching up to Dean and the train. But he was scared. His eyes were so wide, his skin pale beneath the dirt, his hands reaching out. It was almost like he couldn't move closer, as though the idea of it, of leaving the ground and flinging himself onto a moving train, was too much for him. Dean didn't let himself freak out, but he wanted to. He wanted to hop off the train and run beside Sam till they could both slow down and maybe just keep on walking through the night in the darkness till morning. But he was tired and he knew Sam was, too. And the train would take them closer to Joliet, and they really, really needed to be out of Henriksen's reach.

He hung on to the boxcar doorframe with one hand and reached out with the other. The wind rushed backwards through his hair, almost stealing his words away. "C'mon, Sam," he said. " _Come with me_."

Sam seemed to blink as if Dean had woken him out of a ragged sleep. Then his mouth snapped shut and he started running fast enough to make the train look like it was standing still. Dean's throat filled up, like a fist had come up through his stomach, at the sight of it. Sam running to catch up to him, like he had, over and over, so many times over the years. And all because Dean had said, "Come with me." Was catching up now, long legs pushing, using only one hand to grab hold of the train, flipping onto the floor of the boxcar, rolling till he came to a stop in the middle of it. Then he got to his knees, shaking, dust pillowing around his shoulders as he shook back the hair from his eyes and looked at Dean.

Sam's chest heaved with choppy breaths. "Thought the train was going to take you away," he said. "I couldn't--"

Dean didn't want to make Sam explain how scared he'd been, what his fears were. He crossed the uneven floor to Sam, rolling a little as the train picked up speed, rocking from side to side. He grabbed Sam's arms, curling his fingers through the thick denim and pulled him close. He didn't kiss Sam, but touched their lips together and looked right into Sam's eyes, so that there would be no mistaking this.

"If that had happened," Dean said. "If the train had started going too fast for you to catch up, I would have jumped right off."

Sam looked back at him, his face relaxing somewhat, his mouth trying to smile. "I would have caught you," he said.

Now Dean kissed him, softly, a reward. _The sky is too big_ , Sam had once said, back at the hospital. But he'd come with Dean and followed him out into that very place, under the blue. And now he'd jumped on a moving train, headed for someplace east, where he'd never been, to pick up a car he couldn't remember riding in. Into the giant unknown, and all because Dean had asked him to.

He felt Sam relax. "Let's take it easy." The train couldn't be travelling more than 30 miles an hour. They had a while.

Dean let go of Sam and went to stand by the open door, one hand on the edge of the boxcar, enjoying the feeling of wheels beneath him, the darkness flipping past, the night air rushing past his face, the feeling of going somewhere. Of heading out. Along the line somewhere in Joliet, his car waited for him. He hoped that they had parked her out of the weather, and had rolled up the windows to keep out the rain. Though, truth, it had been raining when he'd last been in her, so it was likely that the windows were already up. His other thought was about the trunk and the munitions in there, and while he might not miss all the spare bullets or the little bag of silver filings, his clothes, or all the other crap, he'd miss his pearl handled Taurus. Maybe they'd not found it. Maybe they'd not even looked. After all, as far as they'd known, the car had belonged to nobody special.

He was about to start thinking about what he'd to do her first, either a nice hand wash, or maybe he'd give her an oil change and rotate her tires, when he realized that Sam was standing just beyond the faint light coming in through the open doors. Dean moved closer, and saw that Sam was pressed hard against the wall, his hands behind him to grip on to the wooden lathes across the steel frame. He was going to get splinters that way, sure enough, but Dean knew better than to just grab his hands and pull him away, or call him a big baby, or mock him like he would the other Sam. No, this Sam had a reason, and it was probably that the door was too wide, and that Dean had been standing too near the edge. That there was too much sky coming in on them both.

"Hey," he said. He hefted the door half closed as a compromise and stepped away from the opening. Into the dark towards Sam. "That better?

Maybe Sam was nodding, but it was pretty dark. Dean stepped closer so he could see, his eyes adjusting to the shadows along the wall, looking up at Sam's face, at his pale skin and wide eyes. He was being brave, not saying anything, but still, by the tense line of his shoulders, dark grey in the dark, Dean knew he was pretty freaked.

"Sorry about the door," he said. With one hand he stroked Sam's arm, trying to ease the trembling he could feel. "What is it, Sam-I-Am?"

Sam ducked his chin, his shoulders curving in, seeming to want to lean into Dean without letting go of the lathe. So Dean stepped closer, moving into the space of Sam's body, ducking down so he could look up. Sam opened his mouth just as the trucks on the rails clacked and grated, and ended up shaking his head. Dean reached up to brush the hair off of Sam's forehead, something he liked doing, and Sam tipped his head to one side to receive, liking it, too.

"It's too much, Dean," he heard Sam say, whispering, so he leaned closer.

"What is?"

"We're moving so fast."

Dean waited till Sam could catch his breath.

"I know it's not very fast, you told me, 30 miles an hour, it's nothing, your black car can go much faster, but right now--right now, there's no--"

It sounded like Sam was going to go off on a spin, like he was back in the hospital and struggling to describe something in his head that the drugs had brought on or that the amnesia made it hard to deal with. Dean pressed himself against Sam, and wrapped his arms around Sam's waist, putting his head to Sam's chest, so he could hear the heavy pounding of Sam's heart.

"And I'm sorry," said Sam.

"About what?" asked Dean, breathing slow, so Sam could follow suit. In out, in out, slow, slow.

"In the hospital," began Sam, low.

"Sam, we're not there now, it's okay--"

"But when I put my mouth on you, when I sucked you, you didn't want it, but I did it anyway, and I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't worry about that," said Dean, even though he'd not expected Sam to bring up _that_. His lungs squeezed up and he had to concentrate breathing calmly. He had wanted it and not wanted it at the same time, and had been unable to stop Sam when he'd done it. Just another black mark against him, one he simply didn't know how he was going to be able to account for. Come the day.

"You didn't want it, you didn't ask for it," said Sam, rattling on, "and after, you turned your head away, and--"

"Sam." Dean made his voice firm as he tugged on Sam's shirt, jerking Sam away from the wall to get his attention. Sam was out in the world and it was getting to him. He'd done so well up to this point, jumping on a damn moving train, and that just went beyond brave, and Dean needed to do something to keep Sam calm because pretty soon they were going to have to jump _off_ the train and hit hard ground. Hopefully running and without breaking anything.

What he needed to do for Sam wasn't anything Dean had ever done himself, but he was going to have to be bold and confident, for Sam's sake. There would be time enough to stop doing what he was about to do. Time enough, but later. He patted his fingers against Sam's jacket and pressed closer. "Sam, I liked it, okay? I liked it. So it's fine, just--fine."

"But you pushed me away, and then you didn't say anything, and just wanted to sleep, so I'm pretty sure--" Sam's voice quivered, and his chest was jumping beneath Dean's cheek.

"--you don't know what you're talking about." Dean took a deep breath. "Especially since you probably can't recall anyone doing it to you, so you wouldn't know."

"Wouldn't know what?"

"How nice it is."

"Is it?"

Dean knew he shouldn't have been surprised. Sam tended to obsess about things, and amnesiac or not, if it could be worried about, Sam would do it. From the soft tone of his voice, asking without asking, Sam wanted it. Had been thinking and wondering and Dean had just never offered. So now he thought it was a bad thing and that he'd hurt Dean by doing it, and if there was anything more pathetic, Dean didn't know what it was. Hurt was the last thing he'd felt. Messed up, maybe, but not hurt. No, definitely not that.

"So, hey," he said now, lifting his head, pulling away a little bit, rubbing his hands up and down along Sam's ribs as they shuddered beneath his hands. The two of them stood there, rocking, side to side, with the train. "I think you need some distraction here. You think?"

"Distraction?"

Now Sam was distracted from his earlier worries, wondering what Dean was talking about, and Dean took stock of where his hands were, and where the floor was, and where the waistband of Sam's jeans were. The feel of the cool, heavy-duty button under his fingers.

Then he stopped to kiss Sam on the mouth, closing his eyes, and letting it be, just for a second. "Yeah," he said, brushing his lips against Sam's as he spoke. "A distraction. You think you're up for it?"

"Uh," said Sam, almost stammering, which was all the answer Dean needed.

Dean's earlier promise to himself, that they would stop having sex once they left the hospital, was still in place. But while they weren't in the hospital anymore, they weren't at their destination yet either. They were somewhere in Illinois, on a train, in motion, no-man 's-land, and if Dean didn't know where they were, which he didn't, then they could be qualified as being nowhere. Besides, Sam needed this. He'd done it to Dean, so it was only fair. Just this one time, just this once. And as Dean unbuttoned the button on Sam's jeans, and took Sam's zipper down, his hands were shaking.

He went slowly, looking up through his lashes to see Sam's mouth fall open. Then Sam smiled, and tipped his head back against the side of the train, smiling, mouth curved up at the corners.

"Oh," Sam said.

Dean palmed Sam's cock through his jeans, and it made him laugh. "Yeah, you're up for it." That was dirty talk, something he didn't normally do; he could walk the walk and brag to Sam, but he didn't go in for actually talking like that. Not when he was touching someone like this, intimate and close, or slipping his hand into Sam's boxers, the cool of his fingers making Sam jump, just a little, when they came into contact with Sam's warm skin.

"Dean," said Sam, and it came out of his mouth, like a sigh.

"Yeah," said Dean, wanting to smile at how easy Sam was. But he really didn't want to joke or tease, not about this.

He pushed Sam's jeans down just far enough to expose his hips, and his cock, hard already, pressed up against his belly, tangled in dark, curling hair and the elastic of his boxers. Dean tugged on those as well, just far enough down Sam's thighs, and he bent low. With his hands on Sam's thighs, he could feel the heat of Sam's groin on his face, the close, salty scent. The hard skin and muscle of Sam's cock was just Sam. Just more of Sam, and this was nothing that Sam hadn't done for him. He knew how nice it felt, how it would calm Sam down and that was why he was doing it. Really.

He blew, softly, along the length of Sam's cock Though as Sam groaned above him, a low rumble in his throat, Dean knew that he liked it when Sam was like this, just like he liked touching Sam, liked pushing back the hair on his forehead, or pulling him close, letting himself be used as a living pillow. Sam's head never had to touch the sheets; Dean'd be his pillow forever.

But now this. Dean widened his palms to run each hand up Sam's thighs, his thumbs coming up together between Sam's legs. He moved closer and touched his tongue to the end of Sam's erection, Sam's skin sparking on Dean's tongue, the slippery taste of pre-come salty and hot and a little bit shocking. He drew his head back, feeling his throat closing up, the taste still in his mouth, his face getting hot. Sam had his eyes closed, head tipped back, still holding on to the lathes, as if he thought that this was part of it, Dean pulling off, teasing him.

Girls did this. Lots of girls. All the time. Sam had. So Dean could. Even if he normally would have balked, saying he didn't suck cock for nobody, he would do it for Sam.

He went down on his knees, hitting the wooden floorboards almost painfully, but it would be easier than bending down. For a moment he paused, feeling the warmth of Sam's thighs banking off of him, felt the rocking of the train, the circle of the two of them, in the moving dark, protecting each other from the chill. And then he reached up his hands to cup Sam's cock between them, pulling a little, and then bent forward.

He gave the head a lick, circling his tongue around the crown, but only a little, like girls had done to him, and now he knew why. You had to taste it, get your mouth ready, all that skin, and muscle, the pulsing beat of blood beneath the surface. He ran his tongue along it, now, getting the surface slick, tasting salt and tang, and thinking _okay, okay_. Now he could sweep the pre-come into his mouth, and taste it and know it better, let it help him slick Sam's cock up as he drew it into his mouth. And then more, his mouth circling around, creating a seal with his lips, drawing back, and then taking more into his mouth, and sucking.

Above him, Sam hummed in his throat, his cock pulsing just a fraction as he pushed into Dean's mouth, a response, Sam liking it, his body relaxing into it. That was exactly it, that was exactly why. Dean relaxed his jaw and took Sam's cock all the way. The length was hard, like an iron bar, silky velvet all over, jerking and moving over his lips as he pushed all the way down to the base of Sam's cock, just for a minute, feeling the scratchy pubic hair against his nose, smelling the way it intensified the salt and the heat, smelling of Sam, something sweet. Like Sam's hair, he remembered from kissing Sam, when the heat of his body pushed the scent of him out through every pore.

He drew back and pulsed along Sam's length, sucking with his lips, curling his tongue around, letting his spit make it more slick, his cheeks hollowing in, his throat swallowing, his hands reaching up to hold Sam still. His fingers curled around Sam's hips, pressing to bone as Sam rocked in and out of Dean's mouth in time with the train, matching the rhythm.

Something in Dean's stomach started to leap up, he got it now, he got it why girls liked doing this, when it had always seemed that they shouldn't. It was _his_ mouth making Sam quiver beneath his palms, the muscles along Sam's hips tensing as he pushed forward and pulled back, swaying almost, rather than pushing, matching his pace to Dean sucking, swallowing, pushing down for more of Sam's length.

The train rumbled on, Dean picked up his speed, his cadence half again more than the train, gripping Sam as Sam's thighs started to quiver, small sounds from his chest, and Dean looked up to see that Sam had tossed his head back, hair dark strands against his skin, the flickering glow from the open door lacing him with shards of black and light. The rhythm of the train was his heart, deep, aching with the _shouldn't be_ and the _couldn't have_ , and Sam, rocking forward and back, pressing into Dean's mouth, as though he were reaching for that very thing. Wanting.

And Dean wanted it right back, soaked Sam into him, closed his eyes, and sucked Sam into his mouth as Sam's whole body tightened up, and, with a sudden, short twitch of his cock, he came, jetting against the back of Dean's throat, a hot, thin spill, gushes matching Dean's heartbeat, and Sam's. He took his hand from Sam's hip, and held Sam's cock, opening his throat to swallow the salty stream. And swallow again until Sam's cock was still and quiet and soft in his mouth, and Dean pulled off and wiped the trail of come from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Now he had Sam inside of him.

Sam reached for him and Dean came up, pressing his hips against Sam's damp, bare skin and the tail end of his shirt, the heat soaking through the denim like it was paper. Sam's heartbeat against his chest, Sam's arms around him. Strong and relaxed, and Dean realized that yes, Sam wasn't holding onto the lathes anymore, but was balancing on his own feet, knees taking the motion of the train in stride, his smile easy, his body warm and still as he tucked his head down to rest his forehead on Dean's shoulder.

Dean's arms came around Sam and pulled him close, leaning in. His heart was full, the ache pleasant around the sharp pangs of knowing he would lose this, soon, but that in this moment, it _was_ his. This thing that felt like the world, all the world, was here in his arms, right now. Sam's hair in his mouth as Sam turned to kiss Dean's neck, and he knew if he only had this, ever this, then he had more than everything else that had ever mattered to him. Even if he had to give it up. Because this had to stop, once they got the car. Sam would eventually come to himself, and none of this, no matter how much Dean wanted it, would ever be his again.

"Dean," said Sam, whispering, mouth brushing Dean's skin, making him shiver. "My Dean. Thank you, that was--"

"Sam," said Dean. He took his hand and put it to Sam's mouth. He couldn't bear to hear Sam say anything like that. _Thank you_. No way. It hadn't been a gift, it turned out. Dean had taken, and it was all his. Just for this minute. "Why don't you lie down, I'll give you my jacket, you can rest, and I'll keep watch. Okay?"

Sam sagged against Dean, nodding. A little malleable, but then, a good blow job always made Dean feel like a wrung out washcloth, himself, so it made sense that the same would be for Sam. He tucked Sam's cock back into his boxers, pulling up the zipper carefully, doing up the button, letting his fingers linger. He reached up with his hands, both hands, to push Sam's hair out of eyes that blinked sleepily in at him in the slanted light. He kissed Sam, just once, letting Sam taste himself on Dean's mouth. Then he pulled back and shrugged out of his jacket, and laid it on the floor along the wall, in the lee to cut the breeze from the open doorway. He tugged Sam down to it, pulled his jacket collar up and kissed him.

"Sleep now, my Sam," he said, feeling his throat constrict, circled around by an iron band, grief making the taste of his mouth bitter. "I'll wake you when it's time."

And he would, when it was time. Just like he would let go, when he had to.

*

The wooden floor beneath Sam's shoulder gave a rough jerk, taking him out of the doze he'd fallen into, rocked there by the lulling side-to-side motion of the boxcar, the low and continuous clacking of the trucks underneath. And by Dean's gentle kiss, lips pressed to Sam's forehead as Dean took off his jacket and folded it for Sam to rest his head on.

He opened his eyes, keeping still for a second, thinking he was back in the hospital with the light slanting down in thin lines across his face. Then he realized he was in a moving boxcar that felt like it was slowing down. And that the lights were from the tops of tall poles like street lights or the ones that lit up the intersections where cars crossed the road over the tracks. When Sam lifted his head and half sat up, he saw that Dean was blocking part of the light as he stood at the edge of the doorway. His hand was around one of the interior ribs of the boxcar, and he was leaning a little way out, peering, his face white in the strobe effect of the passing lights.

It felt sharp in the back of Sam's throat that Dean might take it into his head to leap into the light pooling outside, to run along the rails and dart into the shadows, leaving Sam alone inside the darkness of the boxcar. But then Dean had said, _I would have jumped right off_ , so it was probably that Dean was trying to figure out where they were and whether they should jump off yet. Dean wouldn't leave without him, and even if he had to coax Sam off the train, and Sam felt he might need coaxing, he would take the time.

Still, he wanted to be near Dean, even if Dean seemed to want the distance, like he sometimes did after they touched each other in the darkness. Sam wanted him to have his coat back, so he would use that as the reason why he would be able to get close to Dean. He tried to sit up, but the car jerked again on the rails, making him feel unsteady. So he got to his hands and knees, and grabbing the denim jacket in one hand, crawled across the floor, grit and splinters beneath his palms, fingers tucked into the thin flannel lining, his knees banged into the wood as the train rocked. And just as he got close to Dean, Dean looked down, eyes sparking, smiling as if now glad for the company.

"Hey, Sam-I-Am," Dean said. Then he held his hand out and Sam took it, levering himself to his feet. It was nice to stand next to Dean, though it made him feel dizzy to be able to look out the doorway and see the ground passing from darkness into light and into darkness again, especially with nothing between him and the ground but open air.

Dean must have felt Sam's body stiffen up, so he turned to move Sam right next to the door, so Sam could have something to hold onto. Sam grabbed the metal edge, feeling lucky to be here with Dean like this, adrift in the world, but not alone.

He was about to hand Dean back his jacket when he tightened his fingers. Dean's jacket was, he now realized, the thinner of the two, and besides, Dean had been standing in the chilly damp air without it, while Sam had been warm and bundled. Without saying anything, Sam shrugged out of his thicker jacket, feeling the warmth of the wool bunting under his fingers. He held it out to Dean to take before the warmth faded away. He put Dean's jacket on, liking the way it smelled like Dean still, and he ran his fingers down the metal buttons. When he looked up, Dean's face was frowning as he held the thicker jacket.

"Sam?"

"Put it on," said Sam. He moved back, clear out of the doorway and into the shadows. Just out of the way enough so that Dean couldn't grab him without effort. "It's only fair, and I'm plenty warm." Which wasn't strictly true, Dean's jacket seemed too thin to protect him for long against the constantly moving air and why hadn't Dean complained before? Then again, that was like Dean, to be closemouthed about that sort of thing. Sam wanted to be like that.

Dean seemed to consider the whole issue for a moment and then made a whoosh of air, as though giving in to Sam would be the easiest thing to do, just like the time with the ice cream. He slipped his arms in the jacket, bracing his feet to steady himself against the movement of the train. His eyes caught Sam's as he shook his head, frowning as though he disapproved of Sam's foolishness. But there was a smile in his eyes as he settled the jacket on his shoulders and folded up the collar against the cold.

Then he reached out to Sam, and touched the hem of Sam's jacket with his fingers. Sam went to him easily, as though Dean had actually pulled him, slipping into the cove of Dean's hands. Those hands cupped around Sam's hips where they had earlier, the tender press of Dean's fingers into the slight bruises there sending a sweet memory of Dean on his knees, in front of Sam, holding Sam still, holding him tight, tight enough to bruise. His mouth hot and wet and tight on Sam. Sam's cock shifted in his boxers, and he wondered if Dean knew.

Dean pulled him close, fingers locking into Sam's belt loops. They stood like that, hip to hip and face to face, Dean close enough to kiss him, but not. Dean was looking at him steadily with eyes that flickered between green in the light and bottomless black in the dark. They swayed together like that; Dean was close enough so that Sam could feel the stream of Dean's breath on his cheek, the coolness of the air swirling between them.

Sam's throat ached as the feeling swept through him, bundling up from his gut, his heart, and he longed to say it again to Dean. Those words he'd said in the Day room, his hand on Dean's neck, Dean bending close. _I love you, Dean._

Dean hadn't said anything then but _okay, okay_ , acknowledgement but not response. If he loved Sam, like he seemed to, he would have said it, but if he didn't, like he hadn't, not then, not since, did it mean that Dean didn't love him? But Dean'd let them be together afterwards, let Sam have him, let Sam put his hands everywhere all over, and had lain with his face with the pillow while Sam had pushed into him, surrounding himself with Dean. Joining them both, doing something new. _You're the only one_ , Dean had said. _There's never been anyone else_. Sam had been the first.

Which was a kind of love, a powerful one. As was this moment now, him and Dean alone together, swaying as the train rocked, thighs brushing, faces close, breath weaving in small cloud mists between them. Dean's eyes watching. Waiting almost, tensing perhaps, and though that might just be against the motion of the train, it might be Dean himself. So Sam swallowed the words and cupped his palm against Dean's face, his fingers curving up along Dean's cheek. Felt the coolness of Dean's jaw as Dean closed his eyes and sighed, pressing into Sam's hand. Sam leaned in to touch his mouth to Dean's. Light, lip-to-lip, just for a second, drawing back as Dean's eyelashes fluttered as he opened his eyes. There was a glow there, worth more than anything. There was love enough then, and no real need for words. If he felt like this, if they could be like this always, he would never have to hear them anyway.

The weight of the train shifted and Dean fell against Sam, who stood as solidly as he could, fingers curled through Dean's belt loops. Soaking up Dean's heat and watching the backs of low grey buildings slip by as they passed through what seemed to be a small town. The wind blew through his hair.

"We're turning north," said Dean, his face towards Sam, though his eyes were focused on the dimness of the passing terrain. "The sign at the crossroads said the town is Morris. Don't know how far that is out of Joliet, but we should probably get off and start walking. Head east, toward the dawn."

The thought of it shook Sam. He wanted to open his mouth to complain or to suggest that they stay on the train forever, wherever it would take them. Just him and Dean, to the end of the line, wherever it would go. But he knew the plan, had agreed to it, and understood the need to get to the car pound in Joliet to get Dean's black car. That was the deal. Dean was lifting his hand to cup Sam's neck and pull him close enough so that their foreheads touched.

"Okay, Sam?" asked Dean and Sam wanted to taste Dean when he said Sam's name, so he pushed in, his tongue across Dean's mouth, gentle on the chapped, cold lips, nuzzling in close, waiting for Dean to respond, for him to push away, resisting. When Dean opened his mouth to taste Sam right back, it tilted Sam's world, the blood swirled in his head, making him feel hot as his cock hardened. Loving the feel of Dean's hands, both on his neck now, as he released from the kiss and pulled back.

"The train's slowing. We'll have to sit on the edge here and jump and roll into the fall. Okay? You follow me?"

"I'll follow you," said Sam, licking his lips. He knew what Dean actually said, but he wanted to get his point across. "You," he said, giving Dean one more swift kiss. In case it was the last one, because they were going to break their necks doing this damn stupid thing. Sam had a feeling that it wasn't the first time. Or their last.

Sam did what Dean did. When Dean sat on the edge and let his feet dangle towards the ground, Sam did likewise, splinters poking through his jeans, the smell of wet grass and gravel and train oil soaking into him. Water dripped off the metal frame of the boxcar and into his eyes. Sam held so tightly to the wood that he probably wouldn't be able to let go and roll when Dean gave the signal. Dean patted Sam's thigh as Sam looked down at the ground that rushed past the tips of his boots, at the rushing darkness, the ground sloping down and away.

Up ahead, the engine gave a series of whistles that Sam had been hearing off and on all night, announcing arrivals and departures, slowdowns and crosswalks, Dean had said. There was a low chuffing sound and then two hard jerks, metal clanking as the cars bunched together along the curved rails ahead and crept to slow behind.

The train was almost at a standstill, and the engine gave a huge chuffing groan, sending out black smoke that Sam could smell on the damp air.

" _Now_ ," said Dean. "It's going to speed up."

And then he jumped, his hand leaving Sam's thigh, leaving him to leap, landing to stumble and roll, spitting up dust and gravel. For a second, Sam felt the empty, hollow place where he always felt Dean's absence most keenly, like a burn from inside. And then realized that Dean was going to let Sam jump when he was ready, rather than drag an unwilling Sam down to the ground. That in fact, Dean had gotten to his feet and was hurrying beside the train, looking at Sam, right into his eyes, arms up, hands out, reaching. He would be ready for Sam when he jumped, and it was like Dean'd always been there, and it was only for Sam to fly into his arms, and then he could stay there forever.

Sam made himself unclench both of his hands from the edge of the rough, wooden floor. He looked at Dean's boots, and counted the paces, one-two-three. A little faster than walking pace, not quite fast enough to be trotting. His heart was thumping hard, though Dean was there, Dean had done it. He could do this.

Sam closed his eyes, let go, and pushed. Flew. He hit the ground hard, and rolled, not thinking, tasting mud and grit in his mouth. And there was Dean, pulling Sam to his feet. As Sam shook and leaned against Dean, Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, and held on tightly while the train thundered past them, heading away. Sam buried his face in Dean's neck and tried to stop shaking.

Dean's hands petted his back in long, even strokes. "You've got balls, Sammy," said Dean. What he wasn't saying was he knew how scared Sam had been, but he knew, oh, he knew.

 

**Chapter 24**

They walked in the darkness, along the road, away from the town of Morris, going in the direction the train would have been going had not the tracks turned north. The air was a seeping grey color from the lights of the town and the streetlights that accompanied them a little way into the country, after which it turned pitch dark. Although it wasn't raining, there was a constant mist that soaked into them. They stuck to walking along the road, which dipped and rose, going down into heavily treed copses, thick with dank, chilly air, and then up again where the wind whistled past their ears.

Sam stuck close to Dean's side, glad for the darkness and the late hour or he suspected that Dean might make them walk single file, for safety's sake had it been daylight. Dean might even make them struggle through the woods, if it occurred to him that the narrow road had no ditches and offered no cover. Two men walking at this hour, late for midnight, early for dawn, would be quite noticeable.

It was better walking, though, because it helped his shakiness go away and cleared his head. He realized he felt much better now that the train part was over; Dean was smart to have thought of it, but it had almost been too much. Not that he would tell Dean that, he didn't want to make Dean worry or feel bad that he'd made Sam do something difficult. Sam imagined that a lot of things might be difficult, especially when Dean decided that they needed to split up and go their own ways. Sam shook his head, feeling water sliding down his neck and the side of his face even though it wasn't raining.

"You with me, Sam?" asked Dean. His voice sounded clogged as though the damp were finally getting to him.

Sam looked over at Dean and listened to their boots crunching and sliding on the gravel on the pavement for a minute. He knew he was tired, tired of walking, of being in the weather, tired of being hungry. But when he looked over at Dean, he realized that Dean's shoulders were drooping and that Dean's head hung low, his chin almost to his chest. Sam had been willing to walk forever, had been prepared to grit his teeth and walk as long as Dean said to walk. They'd needed to hurry, in case Henriksen had caught up with them. But now, looking at Dean, Sam realized that they needed to stop. Sam had had some rest on the train, but Dean had stood guard all that while. It was one thing not to stop even if Sam complained, which he hadn't been going to do anyway. It was another to keep going when Dean was about ready to drop. Dean might not like it, but they needed to stop.

"Dean," he said.

"Uh?" asked Dean.

"We need to stop," said Sam. "I'm, uh, really tired, and my feet hurt. Can we stop? Can we find a shed or something?"

"Sam," said Dean, and his voice grated on the edge of irritation.

Sam grasped Dean's elbow and tugged to make him listen. Dean's jacket was soaked. "You can't go on fumes, Dean, and you've been going all day and all night. There's no point in this. No one is following us and the car will be there when we get there." At Dean's continued silence, he asked, "Won't it?"

"Maybe," said Dean, his voice wavering.

He was uncertain, and he was too tired to make sense of the situation. Sam needed to make sense of it for him.

"We've only passed a house or two, so there aren't very many of them. I vote we stop at the first place we come to, one of your sheds if we can find it, and get some rest. Out of this weather. We've been going all night, we need to rest. Both of us, and not just me." Then he added, for good measure, "It's fair."

"You cold?" asked Dean. "You want your jacket back?" He stopped like he was ready to take it off.

Sam stopped too, letting go of Dean's arm. "No, Dean. You keep it, but we need to stop. Okay?"

Dean made a little sound like he was struggling with this idea. He shook his head. Maybe he'd settled his mind to walk until they got there but Sam knew it wouldn't be safe. If they were tired, they wouldn't be able to keep going or figure out how to get the car out once they got there. They couldn't be alert, like Dean always was, alert for trouble.

"C'mon, Dean. Be sensible."

"Okay," said Dean, finally, giving in, but he sounded unhappy. "We'll walk until we find a place, and then rest. Just an hour or two, something short."

Sam nodded, agreeing. It was better than nothing. He brushed his shoulder against Dean's and started walking, Dean close at his side, with the drizzle thinning a bit, leaving behind a razor sharp wind.

They walked along the road that settled itself beside a river that rushed with a low, dull sound along the banks. Then they came to a series of bends and dips in the road, but the copse had been thinned out for a series of farms. On the left side of the street was a huge barn that loomed in the darkness, spotted with floodlights on every corner. On the right side, nestled in the bottom of a small dip, was a smaller barn, with only one floodlight, and beyond that, a house, lit up by a single porch light. Sam nudged Dean in the direction of the smaller barn, using his whole body, making him move the way Sam wanted him to go.

Dean didn't protest, which just proved how tired he was. They tried to stay quiet across the gravel drive, staying out of the floodlight as they neared the barn. It was wooden and painted red, but there were no white stripes to make it charming. It was a working barn, with smells of wet hay and manure and other odors that Sam didn't know by name. The gravel thickened beneath his feet into mud, and Sam went right up to the door.

From inside, there was movement and low bleats, and the hum of an engine. Sam tried the door, Dean close at his side, and it opened easily under his hand. At which point they were greeted by a soft _woof._ and Sam felt something furry whap against his legs as he crossed the threshold. A large cream-colored dog of mixed parentage danced around their feet, and absently, Sam petted it, half of his mind wondering why it didn't try to bite them. The other half, was just glad to be out of the rain.

As they stepped into the low-ceilinged room, Sam didn't flick on the light, if there was one, but ahead, through another doorway, was a soft orange glow, which was, surprisingly, warmer than the air around it.

"A heater, maybe," said Dean, his shoulder brushing Sam's side as he leaned to pet the dog, too. " _Fierce_ dog," he told it. "Evil _attack_ dog."

With a thumping wag of its tail, the dog trotted ahead of them, as if it was showing the way. They followed the dog through the doorway and into the part of the barn where the roof was high and lined with windows. The glowing light came from a smaller room, and when Sam looked in, he saw the orange heater and a golden, furry creature nestled in some hay, its legs folded under it, and a pair of little furry golden creatures cuddled up next to it. The hum had come from the heater, and maybe a generator somewhere that Sam couldn't see.

He felt Dean's chin on his shoulder, looking.

"This is too perfect," said Dean. "Unlocked door, happy dog, heater. Some kind of spell?"

"Spell?" asked Sam. He had no idea what Dean was talking about.

"Never mind," said Dean. "Look, there's a stack of hay bales, as ordered."

Dean moved away, and Sam turned to look. By the glow of the heater he could see that there was a series of wooden stalls, topped by green-painted metal bars through which he could see more of the furry creatures, who looked at Sam and Dean with dark, unblinking eyes. Bits of hay trailed through their fur and out of their mouths as they stood very still and waited for their visitors to do something. Between the row of stalls was an area that was open to the floor, stacked with hay bales and a dark spill of hay that smelled dusty.

"Bedtime," said Sam. He grabbed both of Dean's shoulders and pushed him toward the hay. Dean stumbled as he went, and Sam stayed close by his side as they piled the hay up into a mattress. Then he took off his jacket and laid it down on top of the hay. He sat down beside it and patted it.

"Here," he said. "I got you a pillow."

"What about you?" asked Dean.

"We'll share it and your jacket can be our cover." Sam started to unlace his boots, the thick, wet laces clumsy in his hands, when he realized that Dean hadn't moved. Instead he was standing on his feet, swaying slightly, as if not really aware of how tired he was. His chin was practically to his chest, and his hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides, but he probably didn't realize he was doing that either. His eyes were half-closed as he looked at Sam through his lashes. His freckles stood out against his white face.

"Hey, Dean, you okay? Come lay down. Here." Sam patted the jacket again.

It took Dean a moment to respond, and finally he blinked like someone had shone a bright light in his eyes. Sam could see that Dean's jaw was tight, but that he smiled trying to relax it. He didn't say anything as he sat down and started unlacing his boots too, concentrating on this task as if Sam wasn't there. Then Sam nudged him, gently, letting his hand linger on Dean's arm.

"It's going to be okay," said Sam. "We'll make it in plenty of time."

"That's not it, it's--" Dean stopped halfway through his sentence, then, as he was taking off his boots and wet, rain-greyed socks, he shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I don't know what I was going to say. Tired, I guess, so you were right."

"I win," said Sam. He laid out their socks across the hay at their feet and then helped Dean out of his jacket and laid back in the hay. He felt the scratch of it on his bare feet, the dust settle on his skin, and wondered where the dog had gone. But it was clean and dry and almost warm, as the warmth of the heater leeched out from the little nursery. He sighed and watched Dean as he laid down next to Sam, facing him in the hay. Sam pulled his jacket over them both as much as he could. The light was on the orange side, glowy and kind, but it seemed to Sam that Dean looked exhausted. There were shadows in his face, beneath his eyes, next to his mouth. Sam reached out and traced one of them with a fingertip.

"I want to--" he started, but Dean reached up his hand to take Sam's hand in his, stopping him.

"Sam, we need to sleep, you said so yourself."

"But, I could--"

Dean almost laughed then, pulling Sam's palm up to his mouth so he could kiss it. Then he tucked Sam's hand around his own neck, and Sam scooted close. Hip to hip, their foreheads touching.

"We need to sleep," said Dean. "I need to sleep. But we'll get a motel tomorrow night, if all goes according to plan. And then we can--" Dean drew a huge breath. "Well, we won't have to go to sleep right away. Okay?"

Dean was making him a promise, and he always kept them. Sam knew that.

"Besides, I'm not about to take off my pants in the hay. It's too scratchy."

"But you'd look _good_ naked in the hay." Sam said this mostly to tease, so he could press in even closer, and sneak a kiss. "In fact you'd look good naked _anywhere_."

"It'll get _everywhere_ ," said Dean, trying to be stern, though Sam thought he could hear the smile in his voice. "Places I don't want it going. Places it _should_ _not_ go. So, no."

Dean was about to push Sam away, there was a look on his face, his mouth scowling, and Sam didn't want to press it. Not really, not with Dean so tired, and yes, the hay was already poking him in the ankle. So he kissed Dean again and tucked his head into Dean's shoulder, so Dean could slip his arm around Sam. He took a deep breath, matching his breathing to Dean's, and let Dean's heat soak into him, lay still to let it soak back into Dean again. He kissed Dean's neck, and closed his eyes. Made himself relax and not pester Dean, or worry about the morning, which would come soon enough. For now, he was with Dean, warm and dry in the hay with the fierce and loyal attack dog standing guard somewhere, and a dozen or so golden furry creatures watching over them in the night.

*

The bed shifted beneath him as Dean moved and when he put his hands out he realized he was sleeping on hay. A good thick dark green hay that came up dusty with specs between his fingers. Sunlight was streaming in through windows along the roofline; naturally, when they were indoors for the first time in days, it wasn't raining. And it was warm, warm enough not to see his breath, bright enough to see Sam at his side, head burrowed into the flannel lining of the stolen jean jacket.

Sam's legs were half-buried by hay, his ribs speckled with it as they expanded and contracted. There was even hay in his hair, though this did not surprise Dean at all. Rolling in the hay left you looking like you'd rolled in the hay.

He put his hand out; Sam was safe and close by but he wanted it, this touch. His fingers splayed across Sam's ribs beneath the t-shirt, which was warm and dry from Sam's skin. With slow, lazy blinks, Sam raised his head to look at Dean and without preamble, he leaned up on his elbows for a quick kiss. That turned deeper as their mouths touched, as Dean felt Sam's nose, the tip of it cold, against his cheek. The press of him warm as Dean reached up to the back of Sam's neck, pulling Sam close, licking in with his tongue. Feeling drowsy, as Sam pulled back to tuck himself under Dean's chin, hearts and breaths knocking a little. The weight of Sam's thighs across his.

"Remember what you said now," said Sam, his voice a rumble against Dean's chest. "Cause you know I won't."

Of that Dean was certain. For an amnesiac, Sam had the memory like an elephant, only the matter of the hay and Dean's refusal to let it get _everywhere_ had stopped Sam from stripping them both. Which was a good thing, with the awareness of several pairs of beady eyes staring over the wooden railing at them, almost frowning at Sam and Dean for squishing their breakfast.

"I'm sure they're alpacas," said Sam, moving his head to look up at them.

"Not llamas?" asked Dean.

"Well, maybe one of them is, but--"

Dean heard something as the door from the feed room that they'd come through the night before opened. He stopped Sam's mouth with his hand, giving Sam a warning nudge when Sam's tongue snaked between his fingers. In walked a woman wearing what looked like a man's bathrobe, the sash tied in back, feet encased in oversized rubber boots. Her hair spun out of a messy braid and in her arms she carried a child. Whether it was a boy or a girl, Dean couldn't tell, but it sprawled in its mother's arms and pointed as it noticed the strangers in the hay. The woman, intent on the nursery room with the heater and the little alpaca babies with their mother, just walked into the nursery.

He could hear her cooing to the babies and the mama, the answering rustle and bleats. He jammed his elbow back in the hay and mouthed _lets go_ to Sam. Added a jerk of his head for emphasis. He did not want them to be seen in the first place, he especially didn't want some lady freaking out when she discovered she was alone in her barn with two escaped lunatics.

Hay fell in green shards down their legs as they stood up. Dean scanned the barn for a way out that didn't lead past the door to the alpaca nursery. There were other open doorways, most of which led outside to the pens filled with alpacas. He didn't know if the animals bit or kicked, but maybe they would have to risk it. Pointing at one of the doorways, he poked Sam with his elbow and started to move that way. Then he heard the woman talking.

"Oh, alright, down you go, but watch out for Abbot."

The baby came toddling out, making a straight line for Sam like it was aimed at him. Sam, who in his smelly and stained jeans surely made a less than appetizing goal for a baby who could barely manage to stay upright. But no, while Dean stood frozen, the toddler, a little girl by the pink kitten on her shirt, tumbled right at Sam's feet. And Sam, who always had a mind like a steel trap but never a lick of sense, hesitated only a second as the toddler hitched a breath as if she might cry, and swooped her up. Her arm was pink and soft as it circled Sam's dusky neck.

She stared at Sam without a word.

"Are you nuts?" demanded Dean, hissing. "Put her the hell down and let's _go_."

Just as Sam was about to try and pry her arms free, Dean heard a click and felt the cold circle of the end of a rifle pressed against the back of his neck.

"Your friend here'll do as you tell him, I think, or I'll pull the trigger right here and now."

Just at that moment, the dog from the night before bounded in through the dog door from the feed room, large and yellow, floppy ears and lolling tongue coming right up to Sam to sniff at the baby's feet. The baby gave a shriek and tried to climb higher, kicking at Sam's stomach with her little pink and white sneakers. At the same time, the woman stepped out of the nursery, flushed with heat, and spotted her baby in the arms of a man most definitely not her husband.

"Walt?" she asked, her hand on the doorframe.

Walt nudged the gun into Dean. "Now," he said.

"Sam," said Dean. He tipped his neck forward to get it away from the circle of iron, and wondered which doorway Walt had come through, how silent he had been. "Put the kid down."

"I'm trying," said Sam. He bent low, his large fingers curling around the toddler's little pink arms, trying to pry her loose, gently as if he didn't want to hurt her.

But with the dog dancing around Sam's feet, it was no use.

"Uh, _uh_!" said the toddler. The little girl held fast, her arm around Sam's neck tight like she was afraid she was going to fall, that the dog might eat her, her sneakered feet digging into Sam's side for purchase.

Sam was forced to straighten up or topple over so he straightened up. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, "we were just leaving, but she came out and then she fell, and--"

"Oh, Abbot," said the woman. "Get down, Abbot." She snapped her fingers at the dog, who obediently sat at Sam's feet.

"Honest, mister, I can't get her to let go." Sam turned his head to talk to Walt, who hadn't lowered the rifle one inch. Sam struggled with trying to get the baby's fingers to let go of his hair, and in a second Dean was going to see his own brains splattered all over the place. It was a stalemate.

The woman looked at Sam, then at the baby, then at Dean. Then, pushing her hair out of her face, she walked forward, holding her arms out.

"Rose doesn't usually like strangers, but ever since Abbot mowed her over last week, she's been very clingy. Here. I'll take her."

"Lucy!" Dean felt the butt of the rifle jab at him.

"Walter," said Lucy. "They could have hurt us ten times over, besides, they're barefooted. You're the one with the rifle. Here, honeybee, let's go have pancakes."

Dean's stomach chose that moment to stand up and growl as he watched Sam curve his forearm so Lucy could unhinge Rose's arms from around Sam's neck.

"C'mon, baby, you're squeezing the nice man." With coos and tugs, Lucy took back her baby, and for a moment they stood there, the gleam of the rifle holding everyone in place. Including the dog, fiercely slumped against Sam's leg.

Walt moved into Dean's line of sight. He matched his wife in the fair just-out-of-bed hair and the thick rubber boots and Dean could see who they were. Just regular people doing their thing who certainly didn't deserve to be messed up with escapees from a mental institution. Or the FBI, who would be coming after them. Walter looked like a man who never got so much as a parking ticket. There wasn't a single dangerous thing about him. Except for the rifle, which was a double barreled Winchester, of course. Dean kept himself from smiling; he didn't want Walt to think he was being sassed. Not when Walt's finger was on the trigger.

"We're going to go now," said Dean, tugging at Sam's sleeve. "Put on our shoes and go."

The baby chose that moment to lurch forward and would have tumbled out of her mother's arms and onto her head, had not Sam been there to catch her. Lucy lurched forward, and for a second, they both held the baby until Sam, stumbling and flushed, let go of Rose and backed up.

"Sorry, I just--" His face was flushed and he held his hands out.

"I think it's time for pancakes, don't you?" Lucy hadn't taken a single step backwards, but she looked up into Sam's face and nodded. "I have the batter all made, if you boys are hungry."

"Lucy!"

 

"Walter!" she said, echoing his tone "Look at the state of them. This one," she pointed at Sam, "this one is covered in mud and I can hear that one's stomach from here. And what happened to angels unawares and all that?"

With a toss of her hair, she hitched Rose up on her tip and went through the door into the feed room and out into the yard.

For a moment, Sam and Dean stared at Walter and he back at them.

"Well," said Walt, snapping the safety on with his thumb. "Grab your boots and get moving. It'd take a braver man than I to make her wait on serving her good cooking." He paused to sweep his forehead with the back of his arm. "But so help me if you prove her wrong. I'll take you boys out and they won't never find the pieces."

*

Dean stood at the kitchen sink, the sunlight streaming in, golden, through the bank of windows. He washed his hands in water hot enough to scald his skin, but it was more than Dean was willing to do to snatch his hands away just when the numb icy feeling was beginning to fade. He sighed as he pressed his palms against the bottom of the metal sink, letting the heat soak up into him. The soap was a welcome gift too, something soft and sweet that lathered up easily. He could quickly become obsessed with this soap.

Thinking he was by himself for a minute, he was startled to find Lucy beside him, wisps of hair around her face, eyes earnest and concerned.

"You okay?" she asked.

Dean made a sound between thinned lips. Made himself push back and smile. "I like your soap," he said finally. Feeling lame.

She didn't quite pat him, though she looked like she wanted to.

"Your friend likes it, too."

Dean turned. Sam was coming out of the bathroom, damp around the neck, forearms bared as he lifted his hands to his face to smell them. His eyes caught Dean. Smiling. That was what made it all worth while. Right there.

The kitchen was warm and bright. Their jackets and socks were drying on hooks against the wall, and Lucy had stuffed newspapers in there to help them dry out and keep their shape, too. Lucy motioned for him to sit down, and pointed to a chair at the end of the table for Sam. She was efficient as she moved between the stove and the table. Walt sat his seat at the head of the table, his chair pushed a little way back, the rifle within easy reach. The baby, supplied with little bits of cereal, was near him as well, well out of the way of the strangers under his roof.

Rubbing his hands on his pant legs, Dean tried not to feel awkward. They should have left when the moon had set, been on their way along the dark and damp back road that would hopefully take them to Joliet. But no, he had been convinced by Sam to lay his head down. And succumbing to the warmth of Sam's body next to his, he'd actually slept without a single thought that one of them should stand guard.

This thought was broken by the miracle of pancakes that landed on the table in front of him. It wouldn't have mattered after two days without food and four weeks of cardboard sog, Dean would have been satisfied with crumbs. But the pancakes were fluffy and steaming. Another plate landed next to them, full of bacon. Dean's stomach started screaming and his mouth turned into a waterfall. He felt the skin along his neck grow hot and looked up.

Lucy was watching him, and as she did so, she pushed the plate to him. Dean hesitated, then pushed it back.

"Being polite, I see," said Walt, reaching out to pull the plate towards himself. "You wouldn't if you knew." Walt piled pancakes onto his plate and then the plate made the rounds, to Lucy, then to Sam, and then finally to Dean. He took three and saw the pancakes were dotted with sugar and smelled like vanilla. Just as he'd gotten butter and syrup on, he heard Sam moan.

"Oh, God," said Sam, chewing with his mouth full open. "Oh, God."

"Yeah," said Walt. "It's like that.

Dean ate in silence, shoving in the pancakes and the crispy bacon, the delicious tastes filling his mouth until his stomach ached form being too full, too fast. He barely looked up, sucking back from the glass of milk so thick he could see cream clotting along the sides. When it was empty, Lucy filled it again without prompting.

"It's goat milk" she said. "It's good for you."

His mouth liked the taste, so he drank it half down in one go. If he'd eaten like this three times a day at the institution, he'd probably have come up with a much better plan than the one he had, not to mention executing on it more successfully. But they were out now. All he had to do was get them to Joliet and pray that when Sam's memory came back, either Sam was in a forgiving mood or Dean was very far away.

Kitty corner from him, Sam was scraping his plate, looking like he wanted to lick it, but at least he had the manners not to. Instead, when Lucy got up to start clearing, Sam jumped up to help her. As he bent to take Dean's plate, he leaned close and gave Dean a kiss on the lips, tasting sweet like sugar.

Dean batted him away, but it was too late. In Sam's mind, kissing was a nice thing, and this was a nice place, so. In Walt's eyes, Dean could see the question there and the little rise of his eyebrows.

"You boys queer?"

Dean wanted to answer the truth, of course they weren't, they were brothers, but that would make it worse. As Dean hesitated, Sam looked him, eyebrows drawing close in confusion, mouth twisting with that same hurt look he'd gotten when Dean had said they'd better stop.

Then Sam shook his head and did that thing he did. He rolled his shoulders back and stepped in where he thought Dean was afraid to go. Protecting Dean, protecting what they had between them, even if he had to lie. "Oh, that's right," Sam said, standing there with the plates in his hand, sounding like he was trying to keep his voice steady. "We like girls."

Dean let his head fall to the table with a thud. Sam's answer made it sound like they were trying to cover something they were ashamed of, that Dean had coached Sam as to what to say, only Sam didn't quite get it. Plus the way he said it, it made him sound, well, simple. And it might soon occur to Walt and Lucy that Dean was forcing himself on this simple lad. If they only knew.

He lifted his head, figuring Walt was two seconds away from throwing them both out, and where were his boots? Over there by the door. He opened his mouth to start making some hasty goodbyes when Lucy moved in to take the plates from Sam. She patted him and waved at him to go sit back down.

"Walter," asked Lucy, standing there, "what difference does it make?"

"Not a whole lot," said Walt with unexpected firmness. "Only if they can sashay their way into my barn and help themselves to a good breakfast at my expense, then they can sashay out to the yard and help me move that hay into the shed. Then I'll give 'em a lift, where you boys headed?"

Before Dean could open his mouth, Sam said, "Joliet. Thanks, Walt."

Which is how they found themselves hauling hay in Walt's yard, moving the bales of fresh green hay from under a tarp and into the low-roofed shed. He'd lent them gloves, and Sam's stolen jacket held up well, but Dean's didn't. He got cut into by the hay, got hay down his jeans and in his socks, and somehow, down the back of his shirt. They worked steadily, going back and forth while the day burned off the rest of the mist and the morning grew hot. But it was good doing real work, work that wasn't just fake to give the patients something to do to make them feel productive. He put his muscle into it, watching Sam focus on his task, looking like he was enjoying himself, smiling at Dean when he managed to catch his eye.

Lucy insisted on feeding them her homemade chili with cheese on top for lunch, with crackers on the side and large glasses of goat milk to wash it down with. She even had desert, rhubarb pie. Dean ate so much he had to undo his top button, and he watched Sam trying not to belch. Walt didn't hold back, and Lucy looked well pleased with herself.

After lunch, they washed up and got dressed, and tried to refuse the brown paper grocery sack full of food, but Lucy insisted, and Walt just shook his head. That he doted on her and trusted her was easy to see; harder to manage was the avalanche of kindness. They got into Walt's truck, with Dean sitting in the middle, the sack on his lap, his legs squashed on Sam's side of the bump, his thigh rubbing against Sam's. Sometimes it was easy to forget that there were people like this in the world, who wouldn't know darkness if it hit them in the face. Who balanced out the Victor Henriksens of this world without even trying.

~

Continued in the next part of the series.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The existence of this story is due to a number of things.
> 
> First, to the Big Bang Challenge, which made me want to write something long and complicated, to raise my own bar, and to work really, really hard at something for no other reason than because it was there.
> 
> Second, because I wanted to write a story that told how Sam and Dean really fell in love. If you go to my LJ you’ll see I’ve asked around, and really the only non-changing answer is that everyone has their own theory and all theories are equally valid. I wouldn’t say that this story represents my only theory, but it was the one I choose to go with.
> 
> Third, because I have an unhealthy obsession with mental institutions.
> 
> Fourth, because of a story I read that Took Over My Brain. It’s called Missing Persons and it's by Dira Sudis. It’s set in the Numb3rs fandom, and tells the story of Charlie getting kidnapped, and of Don finding him to rescue him. Only Charlie has amnesia and then sex happens, wonderful angsty and realistic sex that develops from a set of circumstances in such a steady and sustained way, that when it happens, it’s utterly absorbing and real and true. MP is one of those stories I fell in love with and wanted to marry. You know the feeling, you read it, you can’t stop thinking about it, it comes up in all those conversations in your head that you can’t possibly have with people at work, it absorbs your waking hours, and the only time you don’t think about it is when you’re looking for another story just like it. Damn that Dira. She’s ruined me forever.
> 
> ***
> 
> Hey there, thanks for reading my fan fiction! Because I love writing so much, I've turned my attention to writing m/m historical romances. My goal is to make a living by my writing, so if you'd like to give my books a try, you can [ click the link to visit my website](http://www.christinaepilz.com/) and find out more.


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